SCOTTISH 
POEMS 


WALLACE 


SCOTTISH    POEMS 


jflDt&et  Book* 
ftp  flflJallac*  Bruce 

OLD  HOMESTEAD  POEMS 

Harper  &  Brothers 

Nev>  York 
IN  CLOVER  and  HEATHER 

Blackwood  &  Sons 

London  and  Edinburgh 
THE  HUDSON 

Hougbton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

Boston 
WAYSIDE  POEMS 

Harper  &  Brothers 

New  York 
HERE'S  A  HAND 

Bt&cktoood  &  Son* 

London  and  Edinburgh 

The  present  edition  includes 

LEAVES  OF  GOLD,  SCOTTISH  POEMS 

AND  WANDERERS 

Published  by 

BRYANT  UNION  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


SCOTTISH 
POEMS 


WALLACE  BRUCE 


The  Auld  Brig  Edition 


New  York 

Bryant  Union  Company 
1907 


Univ.  Library,  !JC  Santa  Cruz  1987 


Copyright  1907 
Bryant  Union  Company,  New  York 


Dedicated 
To  Lovers  of 

Burns  and  Scotland 

Who  Saved  the 

Auld  Brig  of  Ayr 


©COttfet) 

poems 


The  Auld  Brig  Edition 


flTJHE  Auld  Brig  fittingly  marks  the  title  page  of  a 
-»  new  and  complete  edition  of  Scottish  Poems  by 
Wallace  Bruce,  as  the  author — at  the  unveiling 
of  the  Burns  Statue,  Ayr,  1892 — made  the  Auld  Brig 
break  the  silence  of  a  hundred  years  in  welcoming  her 
poet,  and  he  was  also  among  the  first  to  plead  for  the 
Auld  Brig's  preservation.  The  following  letter  writ- 
ten by  him  to  "The  Scotsman"  during  his  visit  to  Edin- 
burgh in  190$,  voicing  world-wide  wishes,  now  grandly 
realized,  furnishes  a  happy  introduction  to  a  volume 
of  memory  and  love: 

"Whittier,  in  one  of  his  letters,  said:  'Everything 
about  Burns  interests  me!  In  this  sentence  he  has 
embodied  the  expression  of  the  entire  American  heart. 
To  destroy  the  Auld  Brig  of  Ayr  seems  almost  like 
tearing  a  poem  from  the  volume  of  Burns.  Lord 
Rosebery,  in  his  recent  letter,  has  well  styled  it  a 
calamity  to  be  averted,  and  has  truly  declared  that  the 
resources  of  civilisation  should  be  taxed  to  preserve 
the  structure.  These  words  will  be  copied  not  only 
throughout  the  United  States,  but  in  every  outpost  of 
civilisation  all  over  the  world.  It  is  in  fact  not  only 
a  bridge  associated  with  the  memory  of  Robert  Burns, 
but  a  bridge  whose  arches  span  long  centuries,  and  the 
world  if  invited  would  come  to  its  rescue.  There  are 
perhaps  a  thousand  Scottish  Clans  and  Societies  of 


&urns  in  Me  United  States  that  would  gladly  con- 
tribute for  this  purpose.  Even  with  arches  and  cause- 
N£  Way  gone,  if  it  could  only  be  preserved  as  a  ruin,  it 
would  still  be  the  most  valuable  bridge  in  the  world. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  bridge  of  traffic  as  a  bridge  of 
memory.  'It  would  be  a  difficult  question'  said  one 
of  the  great  statesmen  of  Britain,  fif  we  had  to  decide 
whether  we  should  give  up  our  Shakespeare  or  our 
Indian  possessions.'  The  statesman  was  right.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  sentiment,  although  the  reply  of  Dis- 
raeli will  be  remembered  when  an  opponent  in  the 
House  of  Commons  said:  'It  is  all  sentiment.''  'Only 
sentiment,'  replied  Disraeli,  'sentiment  rules  the 
world.'  It  is  a  subject,  moreover,  not  to  be  approached 
with  criticism,  but  rather  with  love,  for  love  accom- 
plisheth  all  things,  although  it  would  be  rather  incon- 
gruous at  the  annual  celebration  in  Ayr  of  the  birth- 
day of  Robert  Burns  to  sing —  'We'll  a'  be  prood  o' 
Robin'  after  the  Auld  Brig  had  passed  aivay. 
There  is  a  debt  due  to  the  memory  of  him  who  'has 
made  the  old  burgh  memorable,  and  placed  the  name 
of  Ayr  first  in  the  alphabet  of  fame.  The  Town  Coun- 
cil of  Ayr  holds  in  trust  a  sacred  legacy,  a  gift  to  man- 
kind. As  guardians  of  this  trust  they  surely  will  not 
be  unmindful  of  their  responsibility  to  the  world." 


CONTENTS 

I 

THE  AULD  BRIG'S  WELCOME— And  Other  Poems 

PAGE 

THE  AULD  BRIG'S  WELCOME        ....  15 

IN    CLOVER   AND   HEATHER            ....  22 

THE    LAND   OF    BURNS 24 

WILL  YE  Go  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY  MARY    .        .  30 

SCOTT'S  GREETING  TO  BURNS         ....  33 

II 

LAUREATE   POEMS— Edinburgh 

ANNIVERSARY    OF    ROBERT    BURNS        ...  41 

THE  OLD   ORGAN 44 

WITH    HEARTY   GRASP 48 

THE    ETTRICK    SHEPHERD 51 

To  A   BRITHER   CHIEL 59 

BRETHREN    ALL             63 

To  ANE  AND  A* 65 

OUR    LAUREATE             67 


Ill 

AULD  SCOTLAND  HAS  THE  BEST— And  Other  Poems 

PAGE 

AULD   SCOTLAND  HAS  THE   BEST          ...  73 

THE    TABLE    ROUND             77 

AN  ISLAND  FANCY 79 

OUR    PROSPERO              83 

AT    LINLITHGOW 89 

PROTEST  OF  THE  IMMORTALS         ....  92 

COLUMBIA'S    SON 98 

JOHN   STUART   BLACKIE                 .        .         .  101 

To  JOHN    STRATHESK 104 

SKIBO    CASTLE no 

To  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS          .         .        .        .113 

TANTALLON  CASTLE               114 

INCH-CAILLIACH,  LOCH  LOMOND  .         .         .115 


IV 

FRAE  O'ER  THE  SEA 

THE   CENTURY'S    SONG 121 

FOURTH  OF  JULY  AT  BANNOCKBURN      ...  126 

SAINT  ANDREW'S  SONS 130 

ALPINE  SPRING  133 

THE  PIONEERS  136 

A    RALLY  .  140 


PAGE 

A  SONG  TO  YE  BAITH 142 

To  THE  SHAKESPEARE  SOCIETY,  EDINBURGH          .  144 

To  AN  EDINBURGH   FRIEND          ....  145 

COLUMBIA'S  GARLAND             ...                  .  146 

LINCOLN  TO  BURNS 152 

AULD  SCOTIA'S  SONGS          .  157 

AN    ACROSTIC  159 


/'//  be  a  Brig  when  ye' re  a  shapeless  cairn!" 

— Robert  Burns. 


The  Auld  Brig's  Welcome 

and  Other  Poems 


Thrice  happy  Ayr!   Where  genius  still  holds  sway, 
Whose  peasant-king  all  hearts  and  realms  obey. 
Thrice  happy  stream!    No  other  "Brig"  like  thine:— 
Saved  by  the  tribute  of  a  poet's  line. 


THE  AULD  BRIG'S  WELCOME 


Scottish 
Poems 


Auld  Brig  hails  wi'  hearty  cheer  — 
Uncover,  lads,  for  Burns  is  here! 
The  bard  who  links  us  all  to  fame, 
And  blends  his  own  with  Scotia's  name. 


Seven  hundred  years  the  winding  Ayr 
Has  glassed  my  floating  image  there; 
I've  seen  long  centuries  glide  away, 
But  Robin  brought  our  blithest  day. 


I  heard  the  Thirteenth's  warlike  peal 
Wake  serried  ranks  of  glinting  steel : 
All  wrinkled  now,  yet  in  my  prime, 
I  wait  with  joy  the  Twentieth's  chime. 


I  cherish  weel  in  memory  bright 
]00£ttl0  The  glorious  deeds  of  Wallace  wight, 

And  deem  the  very  stones  are  blessed 
Which  bind  the  arch  his  feet  have  pressed. 

I  mind  the  time  King  Robert's  band 
With  sweeping  oar  left  Arran's  strand; 
The  flame  that  lit  yon  Carrick  hill 
All  round  the  world  is  shining  still. 

Old  Coila's  had  her  share  of  fame, 
Her  bead-roll  treasures  many  a  name ; 
She's  had  her  heroes  great  and  sma', 
But  Robin  stands  aboon  them  a'. 

The  auld  clay-biggin  of  his  birth 
Becomes  the  shrine  of  all  the  earth ; 
The  room  where  rose  the  Cotter's  prayer 
The  proudest  heritage  of  Ayr. 

No  starlit  sky,  no  summer  noon, 
But  kens  the  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon; 
No  human  heart  but  fondly  turns 
Responsive  to  the  Land  of  Burns. 

c         ,6 


Ah,  Burns !  who  dares  to  call  thee  poor ! 
Each  skylark  nest  on  yonder  moor, 
Each  daisy-bloom  on  flowery  mead, 
The  lambs  that  on  the  meadows  feed, 

Each  field  and  brae  by  burn  or  stream, 
Where  wandering  lovers  come  to  dream, 
Are  all  thine  own.    As  vassals  all 
We  gather  here  from  princely  hall, 

From  lowly  cot,  from  hills  afar, 
From  southern  clime,  from  western  star, 
To  bring  our  love ;  all  hearts  are  thine 
By  title  time  can  never  tyne. 

The  crowning  mead  of  praise  belongs 
To  him  who  makes  a  people's  songs; 
Who  strikes  one  note — the  common  good, 
One  chord — a  wider  brotherhood; 

Who  drops  a  word  of  cheer  to  bless 
His  fellow-mortal  in  distress, 
And  lightens  on  life's  dusty  road 
Some  traveler,  weary  of  his  load; 


Scottish 
Poems 


Who  finds  the  Mousie's  trembling  heart 
Of  God's  great  universe  a  part; 
And  in  the  Daisy's  crimson  tips 
Discerns  a  soul  with  human  lips. 

We  little  dreamed  when  "Mailie"  died 
Those  tender  words  would  speed  so  wide; 
Men  smiled  and  wept,  and  went  their  way- 
The  prince  was  clad  in  hoddin-grey. 

Though  but  a  brig  it  garred  me  greet 
To  hear  him  pour  his  "Vision"  sweet, 
And  in  one  crowning  climax  seal 
His  pity  even  for  the  Deil; 

To  see  the  couthie  Twa  Dogs  there, 
Their  joys  and  griefs  wi'  ither  share — 
A  cantie  tale,  it  made  me  smile 
That  sic  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle ; 

Who  caught  the  witches  in  a  dance, 
And  bound  them  all  in  lasting  trance; 
The  very  land  is  bright  and  gay 
Since  Tarn  o'  Shanter  rode  this  way. 


18 


The  Auld  Brig  kens  the  story  well 
These  rippling  wavelets  love  to  tell: 
"Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore" 
A  fonder  kiss  his  waters  bore. 

That  raptured  hour,  that  sacred  vow, 
Are  love's  eternal  treasures  now; 
Montgomery's  towers  may  fall  away, 
But  Highland  Mary  lives  for  aye. 

And  sweeter  still  the  swelling  song 
Of  loyal  love  repairing  wrong; 
Like  mavis  notes  that  gently  fa* — 
"Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw." 

Brave  Bonnie  Jean !    We  love  to  tell 
The  story  from  thy  lips  that  fell; 
The  lengthened  life  which  Heaven  gave 
Casts  radiant  twilight  on  his  grave. 

A  noble  woman,  strong  to  shield; 
Her  tender  heart  his  trusty  bield; 
The  critic  from  her  doorway  turns 
With  faith  renewed  and  love  for  Burns. 


9COtu0f)    She  knew  as  no  one  else  could  know 
jj)0f  1T10    The  heavy  burden  of  his  woe ; 

The  carking  care,  the  wasting  pain — 
Each  welded  link  of  misery's  chain. 

She  saw  his  early  sky  o'ercast, 

And  gloomy  shadows  gathering  fast, 

His  soul  by  bitter  sorrow  torn, 

And  knew  that  "man  was  made  to  mourn." 

She  heard  him  by  the  sounding  shore 
Which  speaks  his  name  for  evermore, 
And  felt  the  anguish  of  his  prayer: 
"Farewell,  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr." 

O  Robert  Burns!  by  tempest  tossed, 
Storm-swept,  by  cruel  whirlwinds  crossed; 
Thy  prayers,  like  David's  psalms  of  old, 
Make  all  our  plaints  and  wailings  cold. 

In  weakness  sown,  yet  raised  in  might, 
He  wept  that  we  might  know  the  right; 
His  sweetest  pleasures  pain-imbued; 
His  song  a  drama's  interlude. 


20 


And  who  dare  thrust  his  idle  word  ^COttf  Stl 

Where  God's  own  equities  are  heard? 
"Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone"— 
Let  him  that's  guiltless  cast  the  stone. 

We  know  but  this :  his  living  song 
Protects  the  weak  and  tramples  wrong; 
Refracting  radiance  of  delight, 
His  prismed  genius,  clear  and  bright, 

Illumes  all  Scotland  far  and  wide, 
And  Caledonia  throbs  with  pride 
To  hear  her  grand  old  Doric  swell 
From  Highland  crag  to  Lowland  dell; 

To  find,  where'er  her  children  stray, 
Her  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  her  "Scots  wha  hae," 
And  words  of  hope  which  proudly  span 
The  centuries  vast — "A  man's  a  man." 

Then  welcome,  Burns,  from  shore  to  shore! 
All  hail,  our  Robin,  evermore! 
Though  late,  we  greet  the  Ploughman's  name 
Full  in  the  morning  of  his  fame. 


21 


IN  CLOVER  AND  HEATHER 

HERE  are  greetings  the  wide  world  over, 

And  blossoms  wherever  we  roam, 
But  none  like  the  heather  and  clover 
To  welcome  the  wanderer  home. 

Warm-hearted  with  kindred  devotion, 

Twin  sisters  in  sympathy  true, 
They  whisper  across  the  wide  ocean, 

Love-laden  with  memory's  dew. 

In  purple  tints  woven  together 

The  Hudson  shakes  hands  with  the  Tweed, 
Commingling  with  Abbotsford's  heather 

The  clover  of  Sunnyside's  mead. 


22 


A  token  of  friendship  immortal 
With  Washington  Irving  returns — 

Scott's  ivy  entwined  o'er  his  portal 
By  the  "Blue-eyed  Lassie"  of  Burns. 

Their  names  by  heather-bells  wedded 
With  fondness  Columbia  retains; 

In  freedom's  foundation  imbedded 
The  lay  of  the  minstrel  remains. 

Ay,  this  their  commission  and  glory, 
In  redolent  bloom  to  prolong 

Love,  liberty,  legend  and  story, 
That  blossom  in  ballad  and  song. 

So  here's  to  the  clover  and  heather 
Of  river-side,  mountain  and  glen, 

As  I  stand  wi'  doffed  bonnet  and  feather 
At  the  yetts  of  my  forbears  again ! 


Poems 


THE  LAND  OF  BURNS 

QNCE  more  upon  the  Firth  of  Clyde, 

Once  more  upon  the  dancing  sea; 
From  out  the  land-locked  harbor  wide 

Our  "Anglia"  sails  right  merrily; 
Old  Arran  rises  on  our  right, 
Her  mountains  bathed  in  sunset  light ; 
While  toward  the  coast  the  vision  turns, 
And  rests  upon  the  land  of  Burns. 

The  western  sky  is  all  aglow, 

The  headlands  bold  are  touched  with  light; 
Reflected  beauty  sleeps  below 

Upon  the  waters  pure  and  bright. 

24 


It  seems  indeed  a  fitting  eve 

Of  Scotia  dear  to  take  our  leave,  {£>  00111$ 

And  in  a  sunset  hour  so  fair 

To  bid  "good-night"  to  Bonnie  Ayr. 

But  now  the  mountains  lose  their  gold 

And  to  the  leeward  sink  from  view; 
The  distant  coast  can  scarce  be  told — 

A  line  upon  the  ocean  blue; 
On  Ailsa  Craig  and  Rathlin  Isle 
A  single  cloud  attempts  to  smile; 
While  toward  the  coast  the  vision  turns 
In  vain  to  find  the  Land  of  Burns. 

Ruins  and  shrines  where  memories  sleep 

We  leave  behind  on  every  side, — 
Dumbarton's  walls  and  frowning  keep, 

Which  shield  the  beauty  of  the  Clyde ; 
Dunedin,  darling  of  the  North, 
Whose  castle  guards  the  winding  Forth, 
And  countless  others,  old  and  gray, 
Between  the  silver  Tweed  and  Tay; 


Sweet  Ellen's  Isle  in  beauty  framed, 
J90£rn0          lona's  shrine  and  dark  Glencoe, 
Fair  Melrose,  and  that  valley  famed 

Where  Ettrick,  Tweed  and  Yarrow  flow- 
They  all  come  back  this  summer  eve, 
As  we  of  Scotia  take  our  leave; 
But  more  than  all  fond  memory  turns 
And  rests  on  Ayr,  the  home  of  Burns. 

For  there  the  "Daisy"  was  uptorn 

To  blossom  on  a  wider  field ; 
And  there  the  "Mousie,"  kindred  born, 

Was  first  to  poesie  revealed. 
The  land  of  "Auld  Land  Syne"  is  there, 
The  cotter's  home,  the  evening  prayer: 
To  these,  in  truth,  the  memory  turns — 
To  these,  which  make  the  land  of  Burns. 

And  there  his  genius,  Coila's  maid, 
In  middle  furrow  stayed  his  plough, 

And  left  her  lustrous  mantle  plaid, 
And  bound  the  holly  round  his  brow; 


26 


And  there  love  met  the  ploughman  bard, 
Ere  life  to  him  seemed  "luckless  starred"; 
And  there  most  glorious  hopes  were  born, 
Ere  "Mary"  from  his  heart  was  torn. 

He  felt  "misfortune's  cauld  nor'-west", 
And  saw  that  "man  was  made  to  mourn"; 

The  "Scarlet  Letter"  on  his  breast 
Was  never  in  concealment  worn: 

With  all  his  failings  he  was  free 

From  shadow  of  hypocrisy; 

In  grief  he  always  felt  the  thorn, 

But  boldly  answered  scorn  with  scorn. 

It  seemed  his  mission  to  bestow 

On  humble  things  the  highest  worth; 

The  streams  that  by  his  "shieling"  flow 
Ripple  in  song  o'er  all  the  earth. 

The  little  Kirk  of  Alloway 

Shines  forth  immortal  in  his  lay, 

And,  filled  with  witches,  takes  its  stand, 

The  ruin  of  his  storied  land. 

27 


He  hears  the  "Twa  Dogs"  at  his  door 
Discuss  the  ways  of  human  life; 

He  meets  with  "Death"  upon  the  moor, 
With  whom  old  "Hornbook"  was  at  strife; 

He  talks  familiar  with  the  "Deil," 

As  if  he  were  a  friendly  chiel; 

And  "Holy  Fair"  upon  the  green 

Becomes  a  Sunday  "Halloween." 

He  dared  to  use  the  pointed  quill, 

While  others  bowed  the  knee  to  power; 
And  Scotland  owes  a  guerdon  still 

To  Burns,  who  left  her  fairest  dower. 
It  was  his  wish,  "for  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  to  make ;" 
And  evermore  the  pilgrim  turns 
To  Scotia  dear,  the  Land  of  Burns. 

The  land  of  heath  and  shaggy  wood 
To  him  was  bathed  in  roseate  light ; 

He  knew  each  spot  where  heroes  stood, 
And  dared  to  battle  for  the  right: — 

28 


True  heroes  of  the  olden  time, 

Whose  name  still  ring  in  freedom's  chime,  Jf90Ctt10 

And  make  e'en  strangers  fondly  turn 

Unto  the  field  of  Bannockburn. 

His  "Scots  wha  hae"  rings  out  more  clear 

Than  any  song  in  field  or  camp; 
And  others  rise  more  true  and  dear — 

"The  rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp." 
For  there  are  grander  fields  to  fight, 
Where  man  proclaims  his  brother's  right; 
And  Burns  of  poets  lead  the  van 
In  simple  truth — that  man  is  man. 

That  little  "cottage"  thatched  with  straw 

Still  speaks  the  truth  he  loved  to  sing; 
A  glorious  manhood  free  to  a', 

Which  titles  could  not  take  or  bring. 
Mansions  of  rank  are  poor  indeed 
Beside  this  cotter's  lowly  shed, 
And  pride  is  humbled  as  it  turns 
To  cross  the  porch  of  Robert  Burns. 

29 


Poems 


'WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY  MARY?' 


ye  go  to  the  Indies,  My  Mary?" 
Sang  Robin  in  days  long  ago; 
And  still  clear  as  a  carol  of  morning 
His  notes  in  sweet  melody  flow. 

"Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  My  Mary?" 
Ay  farther  and  fonder  thy  way  ; 

Beyond  the  soft  sway  of  her  palm  trees, 
Or  rose-broidered  rills  of  Cathay, 

Thy  footsteps  have  wandered  in  music, 
No  name,  Highland  Mary,  like  thine, 

From  the  ripple  of  sweet-flowing  Afton 
To  Columbia's  anthem  of  pine. 

30 


Like  a  wide  arching  rainbow  of  glory 
Thy  fame  spans  the  ocean  to-day, 

And  perfume  of  sweet  hawthorn  blossoms 
Floats  round  us  in  billows  of  spray. 

Resplendent  with  faith  and  devotion 

Thy  troth  is  a  vision  of  light, 
And  though  woven  of  pleasure  and  sorrow 

The  girdle  of  love  is  still  bright. 

Yon  star-sprinkled  "Pathway  of  Angels" 
Gleams  white  as  when  love  gave  it  birth, 

But  Burns  and  his  Mary  are  nearer 
With  pathway  that  circles  the  earth; 

Where  lovers  in  rapture  will  wander 
And  dream  the  same  dreams  as  of  yore, 

By  the  glow  of  the  same  golden  sunsets 
And  lapping  of  waves  on  the  shore; 

Till  the  stars  grow  pale  in  their  journey, 
Till  the  sun  is  shorn  of  its  light, 

And  cold  on  the  eyelids  of  morning 

Hang  the  darkness  and  dews  of  the  night. 


®COtti0t)      Till  then,  ay,  till  then,  and  forever, 
J5)0?lttS          For  lovers  and  love  never  die, 

Shall  the  song  of  our  sweet  Highland  Mary 
Bind  closer  the  earth  and  the  sky. 


Poems 


SCOTT'S  GREETING  TO  BURNS 

Statues  of  Burns,  Scott  and  Shakespeare  in  Central  Park, 
New  York 

TY7E  greet  you,  Robbie,  here  to-night, 

Beneath  these  stars  so  pure  and  bright; 
We  greet  you,  poet,  come  at  last 
With  "Will"  and  me  your  lot  to  cast. 

We've  talked  aboot  you  mony  a  day, 
And  wondered  when  you'd  be  this  way. 
Reach  out  your  hand,  and  gie's  a  shake 
Just  ance,  for  auld  acquaintance*  sake. 

We  welcome  you  from  Scotia's  land, 
And  reach  to  you  a  brither's  hand; 
A  kindred  soul  to  greet  you  turns — 
Will  Shakespeare,  this  is  Robbie  Burns. 


33 


We've  sung  your  songs  here  mony  a  night 
Till  that  dear  star  is  lost  in  light, 
And  Willie  says  the  lines  you  wrote 
Will  even  do  for  him  to  quote. 

He  likes  your  verses  wondrous  weel, 
And  says  you  are  a  glorious  chiel; 
In  fact,  the  only  one  that  knows 
The  space  'twixt  poetry  and  prose. 

O  Robbie,  if  we  had  a  plaid, 
We'd  quite  convert  yon  Stratford  lad. 
He  said,  in  truth,  but  yester-morn 
"I'm  Scotch  in  wit,  though  English  born ; 

"And,  Walter,  it  may  yet  appear 
That  Scotland  takes  in  Warwickshire. 
Let  Avon  be  the  border  line, 
Blot  out  the  Tweed,  or  draw  it  fine." 

So,  Willie,  brew  your  peck  o'  maut, 
And  set  the  board  wi*  Attic  saut, 
For  Rob  has  come  at  last,  you  see — 
We  were  a  pair,  but  now  we're  three. 

34 


We  need  nae  ither  comrade  now, 
No  modern  bard  o'  classic  brow; 
'Tis  lang  before  anither  man 
Will  be  admitted  to  our  clan. 

In  stormy  nights  'twas  lonesome  here 
When  "Will"  recited  half  o'  "Lear;" 
But  now  he  quotes  your  eerie  tale 
In  thunder,  lightning,  and  in  hail; 

And  says  his  witches  can't  compare 

Wi'  those  that  chased  Tarn's  "guid  grey  mare." 

He's  even  learned  your  "Deil  Address," 

To  quote  some  night  for  good  Queen  Bess; 

For  Robbie,  this  is  haunted  ground, 
Where  spirits  keep  their  nightly  round, 
And  when  the  witchin'  hour  is  near 
You'll  see  strange  beings  gather  here. 

I  saw  Queen  Bess  the  other  night 
Beside  him,  clad  in  vesture  bright, 
While  kings  and  queens,  a  noble  throng, 
In  dim  procession  passed  along; 

35 


And  walls  seemed  rising  from  the  earth 
Like  Leicester's  tower  at  Kenilworth; 

J9oem0 

And  all  the  pageant  that  was  there 
Seemed  floating  in  the  moonlit  air. 

Ay,  beauty,  jealousy  and  pride, 
In  Dudley's  halls  walked  side  by  side, 
While  Amy  Robsart  seemed  to  stand 
With  fair  Ophelia,  hand  in  hand. 

And,  Robbie,  what  a  vision  came 

As  Willie  whispered  Ariel's  name! 

The  towers  dissolved,  and  round  him  drew 

The  stately,  gentle,  fair  and  true — 

Miranda,  Juliet,  Imogen, 
Hermione   and  Katharine, 
While  Rosalind  among  them  stood — 
The  sunlight  of  sweet  Arden's  wood. 

'Twere  long  to  pass  them  in  review, 
For  still  the  circle  wider  grew, 
Until  the  airy  vision  bright 
Was  lost  at  last  in  liquid  light. 


So  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear, 
Never  to  tell  what  passes  here. 
There'll  be  a  grand  reception  soon 
To  greet  the  lad  frae  Bonnie  Doon. 

Well  gather  up  the  j oiliest  crew — 
Falstaff,  Prince  Hal   and  Roderick  Dhu; 
And  a'  the  rantin'  brither  Scots 
"Frae  Maidenkirk  to  John  o'  Groats." 

So,  Robbie,  mak'  yoursel'  at  home, 
'Mang  friends  and  brithers  you  have  come, 
And  here's  a  land  that's  quite  as  fair 
As  that  between  the  Doon  and  Ayr. 

A  land  that  glories  in  its  youth, 
That  owns  nae  creed  but  living  truth, 
Where  "pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth" 
A  refuge  find  frae  rank  and  birth ; 

A  land  that's  made  your  verses  real, 
Whose  guinea-stamp  is  honor's  seal; 
Ay,  Robbie,  here  they've  quite  forgot 
To  write  the  "Sir"— just  Walter  Scott. 


37 


Anc*  ^ere  y°ur  songs  will  ever  ring 
Through  a'  the  years  the  centuries  bring, 
Till  all  are  free,  and  every  sea 
Shall  know  nae  shore  but  liberty. 


Laureate   Poems 

Edinburgh 


So  wipe  the  tear-drops  frae  your  een, 
And  smooth  your  troubled  brow; 

"They'll  ken  me  better,"  Bonnie  Jean, 
"A  hundred  years  from  now." 


ANNIVERSARY  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

A  GAIN  Kilwinning's  hearth  grows  wide, 

The  tessellated  floor  is  bright; 
A  mother's  heart  with  loving  pride 
Salutes  her  honored  Sons  of  Light. 

They  gather  from  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
Frae  Ettrick,  Yarrow  and  the  Tay, 

A  golden  hour  of  love  to  share, 
To  crown  with  joy  the  natal  day 

Of  bard  and  poet  lowly  born 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man, 

With  skylark  lilt  of  early  morn, 

And  notes  that  thrill  the  patriot's  van ; 


With  swelling  song  and  living  truth, 

From  hearts  of  fire  and  tongues  of  flame, 

Fast  binding  in  eternal  youth 
Proud  Scotia's  Pleiades  of  Fame. 

They  come — a  galaxy  of  cheer 

In  answer  to  the  festal  call: 
Loved  Willie  Hay  to  memory  dear, 

And  Lockhart  of  the  Minstrel  Hall; 

Aytoun  and  Stewart,  Boswell,  Blair, 
Kit  North — the  master  of  the  feast — 

The  Shepherd,  and  the  Lad  from  Ayr 
Whose  songs  unite  the  west  and  east ; 

And  girdle  all  the  world  to-night 

With  chords  that  make  the  nations  one : 

A  mystic  grip  of  matchless  might — 
A  cable-tow  by  genius  spun. 

O  genius!  Oracle  of  God! 

We  bow  in  wonder  at  his  shrine, 
Through  whom  the  daisy-sprinkled  sod 

Is  rendered  human  and  divine. 

42 


Through  whom  each  form  of  life  appears 
To  wear  a  brighter,  holier  grace; 

His  pity  soothes  the  Mousie's  fears, 
And  halos  dying  Mailie's  face. 

He  sees  his  love  in  dewy  flower, 
He  hears  her  in  the  tunef u'  bird ; 

He  deifies  the  raptured  hour, 
And  seals  it  with  an  angel-word. 

He  saw  in  man's  uplifted  face 
The  promise  of  a  grander  time ; 

He  sang  the  freedom  of  the  race, 

He  boldly  rang  the  century's  chime. 

The  night  was  cold,  he  could  not  wait, 
He  left  his  message  at  the  door; 

Ere  morning  came  he  took  the  gate — 
We  worship,  we  can  do  no  more. 

Ay,  Robbie  Burns,  not  poor  but  brave, 
Neglected  long  but  loved  at  last ; 

The  laurel-wreath  Kilwinning  gave 
Was  foretaste  of  the  fame  thou  hast. 

43 


Scottfefe 

Poems 


©cottteft 


THE  OLD  ORGAN 

Lodge  Can  on  gate  Kilwinning 

AE  sit  beside  the  organ  there, 

And  touch  the  guid  auld  keys ; 
We  want  a  dear  familiar  air, 

And  "Scotland  Yet"  will  please : 
A  noble  song  our  hearts  to  greet 

From  out  the  hallowed  years, 
An  offering  meet  with  music  sweet 

That  fills  the  eyes  with  tears ; 
For  love  is  strong  though  time  is  fleet, 

And  love  alone  endears. 


44 


Ay,  fond  and  full  the  swelling  notes, 

The  pipes  with  rapture  glow, 
As  vague  and  shadowy  memory  floats 

From  out  the  long  ago : 
The  golden  reeds  can  ne'er  forget 

The  nights  sae  fair  and  free, 
When  brothers  met  and  "Scotland  Yet" 

Rang  out  with  hearty  glee ; 
For  love  alone  has  no  regret, 

And  love  is  throned  in  thee. 


The  pictured  walls  bend  low  to  hear 

The  tender  anthem  rise; 
A  gentle  moisture,  like  a  tear, 

Bedews  that  worthy's  eyes; 
Old  "Scotland  Yet"— the  only  air 

To  wake  the  silent  fold — 
Our  chief  St.  Clair  and  Drummond  there 

Seem  nearer  than  of  old ; 
For  love  is  still  the  only  prayer 

That  warms  the  lips  when  cold, 


45 


@COttf0!)        Ah,  brothers,  who  have  gone  before 
J£)OCttl0  Across  the  silent  sea, 

Remembered  still  for  evermore, 

We  raise  our  song  to  thee ; 
And,  in  some  lull  of  harmony, 

When  pearly  gates  swing  wide, 
"My  Ain  Countrie,"  still  dear  to  thee, 

And  "Scotland  Yet "  beside, 
Will  lead  in  sacred  psalmody 

Where  love  shall  aye  abide. 


Then  once  again  a  ringing  cheer 

And  pledge  from  every  heart 
To  Canongate  Kilwinning  dear, 

Ere  friends  and  brothers  part; 
A  health  to  all  on  shore  or  sea 

Who  love  the  sacred  fount, 
Where'er  they  be,  frae  Ettrick  free 

To  Shasta's  silver  mount — 
Old  "Scotland  Yet,"  with  honors  three, 

Up  all!  count,  wardens,  count! 


46 


Hark  to  the  echo  of  the  strain; 

The  cable-tow  is  strong; 
Alaska  answers  the  refrain 

Which  India's  skies  prolong: 
To  brothers  near  and  brothers  far 

The  hailing-sign  is  cast, 
And  sceptre-bar  or  jewel-spar 

Cannot  that  word  outlast ; 
From  Southern  Cross  to  Northern  Star 

The  bond  of  love  is  fast. 


So  sit  beside  the  organ  there 

And  touch  the  guid  auld  keys, 
A  golden  hour  we'll  blithely  share, 

And  "Scotland  Yet"  will  please. 
Sing  of  her  lakes  and  quiet  dells 

Close-fondled  by  the  sea; 
Each  hill  that  swells  with  glory  tells 

The  story  of  the  free; 
While  broom  and  whin  and  heather-bells 

Respond  with  three  times  three. 

47 


Scottish 


WITH  HEARTY  GRASP 

more  within  these  hallowed  walls 
We  celebrate  our  Laureate  dear, 
Whose  genius  all  the  world  enthralls, 

Whose  love  awakens  festal  cheer; 
For  here  the  peasant  ploughman  stood, 
With  daisies  from  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
To  make  this  spot  a  Holy  Rood — 
An  altar  for  each  brother's  prayer. 

But  what  shall  one  from  o'er  the  sea 
With  honor  bring  as  offering  meet; 

What  voice  or  word  from  them  to  thee 
Which  every  heart  will  fondly  greet; 


48 


What  theme  shall  young  Columbia  bear 

To  swell  the  chorus  of  your  song?  100 01110 

Well,  "Here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier," 

With  words  that  to  the  tune  belong. 


Words  born  of  Magna  Charta  brave, 

Along  the  banks  of  Runnymede: 
At  Bannockburn,  where  freemen  gave 

A  bonnie  cast  to  freedom's  seed; 
Conceived  at  far-off  Marathon, 

At  Salamis,  Thermopylae; 
Crowned  in  the  heart  of  Washington, 

The  noblest  product  of  the  free. 


Immortal  words!     The  grandest  strain 

That  ever  thrilled  the  onward  van, 
Soul-stirring  notes  in  symbols  plain, 

Life's  lofty  creed — "A  man's  a  man;" 
Ay,  Robbie  Burns,  that  song  of  thine 

Narrows  the  seas  and  girds  the  world, 
And  makes  these  walls  a  sacred  shrine, 

Where  faith  and  love  shall  be  unfurled. 


49 


So  take  the  page  your  children  wrote ; 

I£)0£ttl0  ^  common  Pride  is  yours  and  theirs; 

Parents  their  children  fondly  quote, 

And  weel-bred  bairns  their  ain  forbears. 
Love's  cable-tow  for  evermore 

Binds  gallant  sire  and  sturdy  son; 
With  hearty  grasp  from  shore  to  shore, 

For  Robert  Burns  and  Washington. 


Poems 


4- 

THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD 

TLJAIL  Canongate  Kilwinning,  hail 

Your  Laureate  bard  frae  Ettrick  dale ! 
Pledge  lang  and  deep  wi'  three  times  three 
The  chief  of  fairy  minstrelsie! 

Wi'  shepherd  plaid  o'er  shoulder  thrown, 
Erect,  though  sixty  years  have  flown ! 
Gi'e  us  your  hand,  and  hang  your  crook 
Right  here  within  the  organ's  nook. 

Wi'  ruddy  cheek,  as  when  of  old 
Forgathering  at  the  "Noctes' "  fold ! 
And  see!  that  e'e  o'  dancing  glee 
Proclaims  a  "night"  that  bears  the  gree. 


Kit  North,  forsooth,  or  Aytoun  there 
will  tak»  again  the  honored  chair; 
Spread  wide  the  board !    "Ambrosian"  food 
Shall  grace  the  bard  of  Holyrood. 

We  call  wi*  pride  each  storied  name — 
The  sacred  bead-roll  of  our  fame ; 
Come  one  and  all;  we'll  ha'e  a  "wake" 
To  make  the  old  Tron  steeple  shake. 

Don't  startle  at  the  Tiler's  knock, 
You're  safe  as  at  St.  Mary's  Loch — 
You  mind  when  first  you  saw  the  Light 
And  gazed  upon  yon  legend  bright — 

And  when  we  had  you  "rigged"  at  last, 
Wi'  "baubles"  all  behind  you  cast, 
You  said,  before  the  "work"  began : 
"Noo,  mind,  lads,  I'm  a  married  man." 

Dear  Jamie  Hogg,  you  couldna  said 
A  funnier  thing  since  you  were  wed ; 
Those  words  throughout  all  Scotland  went — 
And  masons  wondered  what  you  meant. 

52 


But  let  it  pass.    The  days  are  lang 
Since  we  have  heard  the  Shepherd's  sang; 
The  richest  folds  at  Altrive  yet 
Are  fleecy  clouds  in  purple  set. 

Bright,  glorious  days  among  the  hills! 
Thy  books  a  thousand  dancing  rills! 
Brave  nights  of  mirth  as  genius  speels 
And  "tak's  the  road"  to  Tibbie  Shields ; 

Where  old-time  song  and  jest  went  round, 
And  rafters  rang  with  merry  sound ; 
All  silent  now !    Nay !  fair  and  free 
Swells  forth  the  Border  Minstrelsie. 

So  gi'e  us  a  ballad  again  to-night — 
How  witches  flew  o'er  the  sea-foam  white ; 
Your  midnight  ride  with  the  "Witch  of  Fife," 
A  buxom  dame  and  a  sonsie  wife, 

Who  led  her  "gudeman"  many  a  mile 
To  the  Bishop's  casks  of  Merry  Carlisle; 
And  left  him  there  until  rosy  morn 
Found  him  asleep  wi'  an  empty  horn. 


53 


"A  modest  tale,  by  my  fay,"  said  North— 
"It  beats  the  'Brig'  across  the  Forth, 
On  a  flying  stick  to  skirl  away, 
Like  comets  lost  in  the  morning  gray. 

It  makes  one  think  that  the  'Lion*  there 
Will  drink  some  day  of  Loch  Katrine  fair, 
Springing  away  from  the  solid  ground 
To  the  hills  of  Fife  wi*  a  single  bound ; 

Perchance  upborne  on  loftier  flight, 
Till  yonder  Crags  are  bathed  in  light, 
Or  bright  Orion's  race  is  run, 
We'll  join  the  'Pilgrims  of  the  Sun.' " 

"Well    said,  Kit  North — your  wit  is  fine, 
But  prithee  suggest  a  shorter  line ; 
If  Jamie  once  gets  under  way, 
He'll  never  ken  the  blink  o'  day. 

We'll  join  his  'Pilgrims  of  the  Sun' 
When  we  our  mortal  race  have  run" — 
Thus  Aytoun  spoke,  and  Lockhart  smiled 
To  find  the  "Sun"  securely  "tiled." 


54 


Scottish 

Then  Boswell  thought,  perchance  Queen  Hynde 

Might  ha'e  a  chance  to  free  her  mind ; 

But  Willie  Hay  set  all  ableeze— 

"Too  near  your  trip  to  the  'Hebrides !' " 

All  took  a  part  till  Jamie  turns 
WT  twinkling  eye  to  Robbie  Burns: 
"Perhaps  they  want  a  photograph 
That  didn't  make  the  'critics'  laugh. 

All  in  'Poetic  Mirror*  there, 

The  very  garb  they  used  to  wear — 

Byron  and  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Scott, 

At  home  within  a  shepherd's  cot." 

******** 

"Ay,"  answered  Burns,  "but  the  cot  is  wide 
That  shelters  the  fairies  o'  Ettrick  side — 
And  grander  than  castle  its  'but  and  ben/ 
Where  'Bonnie  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen.' 

No  foot  of  earth  but  a  standing-place, 
Yet  the  poet's  eye  has  heaven  for  space, 
And  a  fairy  realm  where  thought  is  free, 
And  'Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be/ 

55 


And  this  was  her  home,  and  this  is  thine, 
As  the  years  their  threads  of  glory  untwine ; 
For  the  vale  she  beheld  is  the  Yarrow  still, 
And  the  music  she  heard  the  tinkling  rill; 

And  the  sky  she  noted  of  thousand  dyes, 
The  morning  that  broke  on  the  Shepherd's  eyes; 
And  the  land  of  'lakes  and  mountains  gray* 
That  sqft  in  vision  before  her  lay 

Was  an  open  book,  where  the  poet  wrought 
A  wondrous  realm,  a  realm  of  thought — 
A  world  so  pure,  with  voices  clear, 
'Kilmeny'  and  he  alone  might  hear. 

Immortal  with  her  the  poet  dwells 
In  Ettrick's  and  Yarrow's  dowie  dells, 
'Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fall  calmly  away 

Like  the  flakes  of  snaw  on  a  winter  day.' " 
******** 

So  spake  the  lad  frae  bonnie  Ayr: 
"Kilmeny !"  "Kilmeny!"  was  echoed  there, 
As  the  Shepherd  rose  to  the  hearty  call, 
And  bound  all  hearts  in  loving  thrall. 

56 


The  golden  hours  are  well-nigh  flown, 

But  gi'e  us  a  song  that  girds  every  zone, 

Each  "valley  and  glen  and  dell  without  name" — 

"To  woo  a  bonnie  lassie  when  the  kye  comes  hame." 

Ay,  that  is  the  human,  my  brother,  you  see, 
"Kilmeny"  is  sweet,  but  the  "lassie"  for  me; 
Your  "Bird  of  the  wilderness,"  brightest  e'er  born, 
"Blithesome  and  cumberless,"  wakens  the  morn; 

Immortal  while  Yarrow  wi'  melody  wide 
Bestows  on  the  Ettrick  its  silvery  tide ; 
While  Ettrick  flows  free  to  the  Tweed  and  the  sea 
That  "Skylark"  shall  wake  distant  meadow  and  lea ; 

O'er  far-away  mountains  its  music  is  borne 

To  desolate  hearts  aweary  and  worn; 

To  meadows  and  streams  where  the  wanderer  turns 

And  dreams  for  a  moment  of  Scotia's  burns. 

Immortal!    Ah,  yes,  the  "Skylark"  I  know; 
Immortal  "Kilmeny,"  with  heart  pure  as  snow; 
"But  teach  me,"  said  Kit,  "what  is  dearer  than  fame 
'To  woo  a  bonnie  lassie  when  the  kye  comes  hame.' " 

57 


A  brave  lesson,  Jamie,  we  know  it  by  heart, 
But  gi'e  us  another,  for  brithers  must  part; 
Ay,  teach  us  but  this,  for  the  east  is  aflame, 
To  find  hearty  welcome  when  we*  a*  get  hame. 


TO  A  BRITHER  CHIEL 

pOR  thirty  days  I've  been  your  debtor, 
Since  I  received  your  honor's  letter; 
Henceforth  I  promise  to  do  better, 

Excuse  delay; 
I  ha'e  been  bound  as  wi*  a  fetter 

This  mony  a  day. 

Not  in  the  folds  of  fond  caresses, 
Fair  auburn  locks  and  golden  tresses, 
Or  "withs" — the  consulate  confesses — 

Of  stately  cares; 
But,  on  the  knowledge  he  possesses, 

Respondent  swears — 

59 


And  prays  for  grace  and  absolution, 
With  full  and  ample  restitution, 
The  case  admits  of  quick  solution 

When  Cadman  learns 
The  facts  without  circumlocution — 

I've  been  wi*  Burns. 

I  think  your  honor  gets  my  meaning, 
The  Court  has  always  had  a  leaning 
To  kindred  spirit-souls  convening, 

Their  hearts  to  share: 
In  brief,  I've  had  a  blithe  careening 

Ayont  the  Ayr, 

Where  stands  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 
A  sacred  shrine  for  all  the  earth, 
The  humble  room,  the  narrow  hearth, 

With  lesson  wide: 
That  love  and  faith  and  honest  worth 

Shall  aye  abide. 

I  traced  the  love-lit  winding  stream, 
Sweet  monogram  of  passion's  dream ; 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  moonlight  gleam 

60 


In  loving  croon, 
As  gently  fell  its  fondling  beam  1@0£tn$ 

On  bonnie  Doon. 

I  saw  auld  Alloway's  roofless  kirk, 

Where  lingering  "ghaists  and  houlets"  lurk, 

Wi'  Nannie  glintin'  through  the  mirk, 

Queen  o'  the  ball, 
And  Satan  sitting  like  a  Turk 

Amang  them  all. 

Ay,  more,  I  "lectured"  down  in  "Killie," 
Where  fame  still  "canters  like  a  filly," 
And  cracked  wi'  lads  that  were  na  chilly, 

Till  hours  were  sma', 
And  time  was  measured  by  the  gillie, 

Or  no*  ava. 

Straightway  Auld  Reekie's  storied  street 

And  Baxter  Close  in  glory  greet, 

Stair  Number  One,  that  stayed  his  feet, 

When  first  he  came, 
To  make  Edina's  page  complete, 

And  crown  her  fame. 

61 


@>COttf0f)  And  then  the  last,  but  not  the  least, 
I  wrote  some  lines  for  Robin's  feast, 
Where  "raising"  isna  done  by  yeast, 

But  in  a  style 
Which  Brothers  brought  frae  "  'way  down  east," 

Fu'  mony  a  mile. 

Kilwinning  Canongate  they  ca'  it, 
Lodge  Number  Two,  lang  love  befa'  it, 
By  genius  "tiled,"  time  canna  thraw  it, 

Till  Nature  sleeps, 
For  Robbie  there  was  wreathed  the  Laureate 

With  crown  that  keeps. 

I  therefore  trust  the  Court's  decision — 
Waiving  the  forms  of  strict  precision — 
Will  grant  reprieve  for  Love's  omission, 

And  draw  it  mild; 
Wi*  Burns  and  business  in  collision 

We're  baith  beguiled. 


62 


Poems 


BRETHREN  ALL 

Dedication  Masonic  Home,  Utica 

T"*  O  brethren  hale  and  free 
A  line  across  the  sea 

We  fondly  throw; 
A  pledge  to  one  and  all 
Within  our  hailing-call ; 
Let  love  all  hearts  enthrall, 

And  gladness  flow! 

From  out  the  centuries  vast 
A  ray  of  hope  is  cast— 

A  beam  divine:     , 
May  Light  that  guides  our  way, 
Which  craftsmen  true  obey, 
On  well-wrought  work  for  ape 

In  glory  shine! 


To  shield  from  pain  and  care 
100£ttl0  ^e  kuild  with  faith  and  prayer 

A  sure  abode; 
A  refuge  from  the  blast, 
When  skies  are  overcast, 
And  night  is  falling  fast 

Upon  life's  road. 

A  Home!     Ah,  blessed  word! 
What  memories  are  stirred! 

God  guard  it  well! 
Thy  smile  upon  our  task, 
Great  Architect,  we  ask, 
Till  in  Thy  light  we  bask, 

And  ever  dwell! 

The  ashlers  that  we  hew, 
And  set  with  plummet  true, 

Our  labor  here; 
A  living  Temple  grand, 
Not  reared  by  human  hand, 
But  by  Supreme  Command, 

Shall  there  appear. 


64 


Poems 


"TO  ANE  AND  A*  " 

"W7  ERE  distance  compassed  by  a  thought, 

Or  oceans  traversed  by  a  dream, 
One  certain  star  of  glory  wrought 

To-night  upon  my  sight  would  gleam; 
But  oh,  the  severing  sea  is  wide, 

And  mony  a  weary  night  maun  fa* 
Ere  Firth  of  Forth  or  Frith  of  Clyde 

Shall  greet  the  bard  that's  far  awa*. 

Yet  what  recks  love  of  time  or  space — 

I  sit  amang  you  once  again, 
Ance  more  I  hear  the  songs  that  grace 

The  night  o'  nights,  the  Lodge  o'  men ; 


&COttl0l)         I  know  fu'  weel  the  hearty  grasp, 

Trie  kindly  word  frae  ane  and  a'; 
My  dreams  no  longer  shadows  clasp — 
The  bard  is  nae  sae  far  awa'. 

I  hear  the  storied  walls  resound 

Wi'  ringing  words  and  notes  of  cheer; 
Once  more  I  trace  the  sacred  bound 

Of  Burns  and  Hogg,  our  Laureates  dear; 
Again  the  fond  Old  Organ  thrills 

Wi'  memories  sweet  that  gently  fa', 
And  every  eye  wi'  moisture  fills 

For  brithers  near  though  far  awa' ; 

For  lovers  leal  in  distant  lands 

Wha  cherish  still  the  hallowed  shrine 
To  Scotia  wed  by  blended  strands — 

A  cable-tow  of  Auld  Lang  Syne; 
But  whether  near  or  whether  far, 

A  health  to-night  to  ane  and  a'; 
And  here  beneath  yon  central  star 

Wha  says  the  bard  is  far  awa'? 


OUR  LAUREATE 

formal  lines  to  speak  our  love, 
Or  stanzas  born  of  modern  art, 
We  note  with  joy  one  star  above 

Which  shines  on  many  a  wanderer's  chart. 
Its  power  we  feel.    Its  light  we  see — 
It  speaks  of  Burns  and  Masonry. 

How  generations  come  and  go, 

Like  flitting  smile  or  passing  dream! 
Still  as  the  river's  onward  flow, 

Swift  as  the  sunlight's  golden  gleam 
They  pass  away,  no  step  returns — 
Hark!  at  the  door  is  Robert  Burns. 

67 


Alone  from  out  the  hallowed  past, 
Nay,  not  alone,  but  leading  still 

Poems 

A  brilliant  throng  with  light  o'er  cast, 
And  life  beyond  the  painter's  skill, 
Behold  the  garland  on  his  brow, 
Our  poet  undisputed  now. 


He  comes  from  Coila's  daisied  field, 

As  in  the  cherished  days  of  old, 
From  cotter's  thatch  and  hamely  bield, 
With  sturdy  step  and  vigor  bold; 
And  takes  the  throne  of  Scottish  wit 
By  right  divine — her  Laureate. 


For  higher  than  all  other  sway 

The  poet's  word,  the  voice  of  time; 
No  jester  of  an  idle  play, 

No  weaver  of  an  empty  rhyme; 
His  heart  to  Nature's  heart  so  near, 
He  speaks!     The  listening  centuries  hear. 

68 


Through  him  discordant  hearts  are  stilled — 

They  feel  the  magic  of  his  power- 
He  speaks  and  all  the  land  is  thrilled, 
Before  him  Tyranny  doth  cower. 
To  Scotia  dear  Columbia  turns, 
And  hands  are  clasped  by  Robert  Burns. 


69 


O  Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  Hood! 

— Walter  Scott. 


Auld  Scotland  Has  the  Best 
and  Other  Poems 


Poems 


Sweet  miniature  of  Scotia's  hills, 
Forever  bright  as  years  go  by, 

With  golden  light  on  sparkling  rills, 
That  Sabbath  in  the  Isle  of  Skye! 


AULD  SCOTLAND  HAS  THE  BEST 

PRAE  Arrarat  to  Ailsa  Craig, 

Frae  Indus  to  the  Dee, 
From  Mandalay  to  Loch  Scavaig, 

Prood  Scotland  bears  the  gree. 
Auld  Scotland  has  a  muckle  heart 

For  foe  or  welcome  guest ; 
She  taks  or  plays  nae  second  part, 

Auld-  Scotland  has  the  best. 

She  lifts  her  standard  to  the  sky 

Aboon  Ben  Nevis  bold, 
While  driving  mists  empurpled  lie 

Beneath  St.  Andrew's  fold; 


Poems 


73 


@COttf0fc  Nor  recks  she  o'  the  blast  or  reek 

That  sweeps  her  eagle-nest; 
She  guards  Britannia's  crowning  peak, 
Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 

Her  braw  and  bonnie  lakes  entwine 

Wi'  inlets  o'  the  sea; 
Loch  Awe's  "far  cry"  to  fair  Loch  Fyne 

Speaks  Nature's  trinity 
Of  mountain,  lake  and  ocean-tide, 

Wi'  grandeur  wild  impressed; 
We  wander  far  and  journey  wide, 

But  Scotland  has  the  best. 

We  hear  the  music  o'  her  streams, 

Her  firths  on  pebbled  beach; 
From  where  the  Spey  in  sunlight  gleams 

To  Teviot's  crystal  reach. 
In  Yarrow's  flow  we  mind  again 

The  Border's  sweet  behest, 
And  in  her  songs  of  sad  refrain 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 

74 


Ay,  best  o'  a'  since  "hansel"  fell 

On  yonder  clay-built  shielin' 
Where  Bonnie  Doon  wi'  quiet  spell, 

Like  gloamin'  gently  stealin', 
The  realm  o'  love  divides  wi'  Ayr, 

Twin  rivers  ever  blest: 
What  other  land  has  such  a  pair, 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 


Twin  heroes  too  fair  Coila  found 

Beside  her  matchless  streams; 
No  other  names  the  wide  world  round 

Awaken  nobler  dreams; — 
Prophetic  of  a  land  to  be 

Beyond  the  glowing  west, 
She  reared  them  by  the  sounding  sea, 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 

Two  battles  also  side  by  side 

Illume  her  glorious  page; 
Here  Stirling  Bridge  enriched  the  tide 

Where  Wallace  threw  his  gage, 


75 


There  Edward's  son  at  Bannockburn 

Wi'  jewelled  lance  in  rest 
Frae  Bruce's  axe  sought  swift  return, 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 

O  lessons  bright  for  Scotsmen  born 

Where'er  the  heather  glows; 
From  Orkney  hills  that  wake  the  morn 

To  where  the  Solway  flows ; 
Hail,  darling  Reekie  once  again 

Beneath  your  Lion-crest, 
Of  cities  still  the  crown  retain, 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best! 

And  not  alone  of  mountain  high, 

Of  stream  and  cliff  and  lake, 
Of  glorious  deeds  that  cannot  die, 

Of  songs  that  memories  wake, 
But  faith  that  made  old  Scotia's  shore 

An  island  of  the  blest 
Still  guards  lona's  sacred  door, 

Auld  Scotland  has  the  best. 


Poems 


THE  TABLE  ROUND 


draws  the  sword  from  out  this  stone 
Shall  rule  the  realm  from  sea  to  sea": — 
In  lettered  gold  the  legend  shone 
Well-wrought  by  Merlin's  prophecy. 

Brave  lords  and  knights  encircled  stand 
To  wield  the  blade  of  magic  might, 

But  none  of  all  the  noble  band 

Could  loose  it  from  the  marble  white. 

Then  Arthur  came  with  modest  grace 

And  drew  it  forth — the  king  was  found,— 

Prophet  of  freedom  to  the  race 
And  founder  of  the  Table  Round. 

77 


©cottteft 
Poem* 


ii 

Long  ages  pass — the  Table  Round 
Had  other  knights  well  known  to  fame ; 

No  single  realm  their  sway  could  bound, 
The  world  revered  each  honored  name. 


Kit  North,  De  Quincey,  Lockhart,  Moir, 
Hogg,  Stephens,  Gait,  and  Hamilton, 

And  Scott,  who  led  the  minstrel  choir, 
Sat  round  the  board  with  Alison. 

An  heirloom  in  the  centre  stood 

With  quaint  device:    "Who  draws  this  quill 
From  out  this  font  of  ebon-wood 

Shall  rule  all  hearts  and  realms  at  will." 


Then  rose  each  knight  of  noble  name, 
In  loving  gage  gave  jeweled  ring; 

At  their  behest  Sir  Walter  came 

And  took  the  quill  —  our  Wizard  King. 


poems 


AN  ISLAND  FANCY 

Scott  and  Shakespeare. 

YJT7HICH  is  the  fairest  of  Shakespeare's  girls? 
The  brightest,  the  dearest  of  all  his  train, 
That  shook  to  the  breeze  their  dancing  curls 
In  the  sweetness  and  spring-tide  of  beauty's 

reign? 

Shall  I  answer  you:— Portia  in  Belmont's  bower, 
Or  fair  Imogen  in  her  Warwick  tower? 
Dear  Jessica,  Rosalind,  Isabel? 
Nay,  answer  yourself;  I  cannot  tell. 

But  which  would  you  name  for  your  wedded  choice? 

Pray  which  would  you  marry?  tell  me  that: — 
Cordelia  true  with  her  gentle  voice, 

Sweet  Anne  Page  in  her  Stratford  hat, 

79 


Juliet  gazing  at  trembling  stars 
balcony^  casement,  and  lattice  bars? 

Would  you  rather  be  her  Romeo? 

Or  someone  else's?     I  hardly  know. 


For  I  like  the  moonlight  on  Belmont's  bowers, 

And  the  Annies  that  wander  by  Avon-stream, 
And  the  maiden  of  Warwick's  cloud-capped 
towers, 

And  the  Capulet  gardens  where  lovers  dream. 
But  which  would  I  marry?     Which  would  you? 
First  tell  me  the  rainbow's  loveliest  hue. 

Ah!  life  would  be  of  heaven  a  lease, 

With  Viola,  Celia  or  Beatrice. 

But  answer  me  truly!  Well,  dearer  than  all, 

Than  Perdita,  Hero  or  Hermione, 
Is  lovely  Miranda  in  Prospero's  hall, 

In  bright  sunny  island  far  out  in  the  s'ea: 
Miranda  the  peerless,  the  sweetest,  the  best, 
In  magical  island  far  out  in  the  west, 

Where  waves  break  in  beauty  on  sun-tinted 
strand. 

If  I  am  mistaken  —  then  ask  Ferdinand. 

So 


Which  is  the  fairest  of  all  who  came 

At  the  word  of  the  conjurer,  Walter  Scott?  ]00£ttl$ 

Princess  and  lady  of  titled  name, 

Lassie  and  maiden  of  lowly  lot? 
Edith  Plantagenet,  royal  by  birth, 
Catherine  Glover,  the  Fair  Maid  of  Perth, 

Brave  Jeanie  Deans  with  her  eloquent  prayer, 

Eveline  Beringer,  Constance  or  Clare? 


Which  would  I  marry?     Edith  of  Lorn? 

Rose  of  Bradwardine,  gentle  and  mild, 
Sweet  Alice  Bridgenorth,  Puritan  born, 

Or  bright  Alice  Lee,  the  Cavalier's  child? 
Rebecca,  Rowena,  or  Julia  the  fair, 
Edith  Bellenden  with  King  Charles's  chair? 

Saxon  or  Norman  or  Jewess?    Ah  me, 

Thrice  happy  to  win  any  one  of  the  three! 


But  is  there  no  choice?     Well,  dearer  to  me, 
Than  Flora  Mclvor  of  lineage  high, 

Than  Bertha,  who  sailed  over  many  a  sea 

To  find  her  bold  Hereward  'neath  sunnier  sky 

81 


©CPttf0ft     Than  Robert's  Brenhilda  of  Normandy's  soil, 
100£ttl£    ^r  *kc  ra(^ant  daughters  of  bluff  Magnus  Troil, 
Fair  Brenna  and  Minna  who  dwelt  by  the  sea, 
There  is  one  of  the  "Galaxy"  dearer  to  me. 

• 

Ay,  dearer  than  all  who  have  passed  in  review, 
Than  heart-broken  Amy  or  sweet  Eveline, 
Than  hoyden  Die  Vernon,  with  eyes  grey  or  blue, 

Is  true  Helen  Douglas  of  bonnie  Katrine; 
And  sunlight  and  moonlight  in  transport  shall 

smile 

For  years,  ay,  forever,  on  fair  Ellen's  isle. 
Ah,  happy  that  island  to  bear  her  sweet  name ! 
If  I  am  mistaken — then  ask  Malcolm  Graeme. 


82 


Poems 


OUR  PROSPERO 

A  GAIN  by  Murdoch's  cheery  hearth, 

Entranced  as  in  the  olden  days, 
I  share  his  flow  of  kindly  mirth 

And  pathos  blent  in  genial  rays. 
"The  feast  is  o'er  in  Branksome  Tower" 

Found  utterance  at  his  social  board; 
It  touched  a  spring  of  hidden  power 
And  golden  dreams  in  memory  stored. 

For  Scottish  minstrelsy  was  real, 
And  Walter  Scott  a  wizard  true, 

To  him  who  bore  the  Gaelic  seal, — 
A  heart  as  pure  as  morning  dew, 


sou^  perfervid  as  a  star 
J90Cttl0      That  sprinkles  joy  athwart  the  night, 
And  swift  through  silent  spaces  far 

Sends  wide  its  glorious  Song  of  Light. 

Oh,  could  I  paint  the  glow  that  lit 

The  features  of  his  matchless  face, 
Or  summon  back,  as  round  him  flit, 

The  stately  forms  of  antique  grace — 
Robert  the  Bruce,  of  warlike  mien, 

The  haughty  Douglas,  proud  and  stern; 
Randolph,  with  spear  and  claymore  keen, 

To  do  or  die  at  Bannockburn. 


No  scene  so  grand  on  classic  stage; 

He  walks  the  floor — the  room  grows  wide 
Rebecca  steps  from  pictured  page 

With  sweet  Die  Vernon  at  her  side; 
I  hear  the  trembling  accents  rise 

Of  Jeanie  Deans,  in  tender  strain, 
And  Richmond  lifts  to  listening  skies 

Tier  towers,  tear-washed,  of  many  a  stain. 


Again  we  wander  Scotland  o'er, 

And  stray  by  many  a  sacred  shrine,  1K0£ 

Recalling  rich  romantic  lore — 

Responsive  to  the  uttered  line. 
We  see  again  proud  Birnam's  wood, 

The  misty  hills  of  Fife  and  Lome, 
And  wake  the  halls  of  Holyrood 

With  merry  note  and  bugle  horn. 


Young  Lochinvar  in  pride  returns; 

Of  border  ballads  still  the  best— 
The  actor's  soul  within  him  burns 

To  greet  the  hero  of  the  west: 
And  in  yon  horse-hoofs  clashing  swift 

As  Deloraine's,  in  morning  gray, 
Somehow  the  curtain  seems  to  lift 

On  "Sheridan"  at  break  of  day. 


And  there  by  noble  Ellen's  Isle 

We  hear  Loch  Katrine's  lapsing  wave; 

And  pluck  the  flowers  that  fondly  smile 
Above  Clan  Alpine's  lonely  grave. 


@COttl0|)          A  realm  of  love,  and  still  more  dear 
For  that  one  fleeting  hour  of  joy; 
Hark  yonder  sky-lark  lilting  clear — 
In  silver  notes  without  alloy — 


Recalls  proud  Dudley's  pageant  there 

At  Kenilworth — the  virgin  Queen, 
The  lofty  walls  of  Warwick  fair, 

With  memories  bright  of  Imogen; 
As  Shakespeare  sweeps  in  Macbeth's  line 

Across  the  Tweed  on  friendly  raid, 
So  Scott  in  fond  reprisal  shrines 

Poor  Amy  Robsart  in  his  plaid. 

No  labored  act  or  measured  scene, 

For  Murdoch  holds  us  in  his  spell; 
It  seems  no  distance  lay  between 

The  English  down  and  Scottish  fell. 
He  spoke!    The  Ettrick  far  away 

Went  rippling  soft  by  Avon-stream, 
Where  slanting  willows  gently  sway 

Their  requiem  to  Ophelia's  dream. 

86 


Again  the  Arden  woodland  rang 

With  wit  that  held  the  world  at  naught;  |+)0£ttl$ 

Once  more  the  leaves  in  witchery  sang 

Orlando's  verses,  quaintly  wrought. 
Miranda  stood  with  Ferdinand — 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers  above  us  glow — 
His  voice,  forsooth,  a  magic  wand, 

And  he — our  gentle  Prospero. 

How  strange  the  power  to  mold  and  sway, 

To  summon  spirits  from  the  deep, 
Where  lapsing  waves  in  golden  spray 

About  the  shores  of  dreamland  sweep! 
To  reach,  on  Ariel  journeys  wide, 

The  hem  of  Being  near  and  far, 
With  ear  responsive  to  the  tide 

That  breaks  beyond  the  farthest  star! 

And  such  thy  power,  O  Murdoch  brave, 

Who  played  thy  part  so  nobly  here, 
And  all  thy  gentle  nature  gave 

To  foster  love  and  human  cheer: 


@COttf0J)  To  us  the  scholar,  artist,  friend— 

J£)0£ttl0  Nay,  far  beyond  this  narrow  span 

His  power  and  love   and  life  extend; 
Time's  loftiest,  noblest  dream — a  man ! 


88 


Poems 


AT  LINLITHGOW 

Riding  the  Marches. 

TLJARK  to  the  summons!     Mount  and  ride! 

Linlithgow  speaks,  her  sons  are  here ; 
From  quiet  loch  to  flowing  tide 

Her  bugle-note  swells  loud  and  clear: 
Ride,  brothers,  ride  the  marches  wide, 
With  stately  pomp  and  civic  pride. 

King  David's  royal  borough  fair 

Proclaims  long  centuries  of  fame; 
Eight  hundred  years  her  annals  bear 
The  record  of  a  noble  name ; 

Ride  fair  and  free  o'er  loch  and  lea 
Linlithgow's  banner  bears  the  gree. 


@f  OttI0J)  St.  Michael's  Church,  with  visioned  aisle 

Where  spirits  pled  for  Scotia's  weal, 
Still  guards  in  peace  a  stately  pile, 
Where  erst  stood  Edward's  lofty  peel: 

Queen  Margaret's  bower  and  roofless  tower 
Remain  Linlithgow's  richest  dower. 


And  Scotland's  Mary,  cradled  here, 

Whose  beauty  still  the  world  o'er  sways, 
Makes  lake  and  wood  and  stream  more  dear — 
Her  smile  upon  the  landscape  plays : 
A  sunny  dream,  a  morning  beam, 
Before  the  lightning's  lurid  gleam. 


A  wider  boundary  now  belongs 

Than  when  your  palace  walls  were  reared ; 
You  speak  in  David  Lindsay's  songs, 
You  live  by  Walter  Scott  endeared ; 
Your  marches  reach  where  mothers  teach 
The  Doric  or  the  English  speech. 


90 


Then  rally  round  the  old  Cross  Well, 

Ride  east  and  west,  ride  south  and  north ; 
Each  year  your  ancient  landmarks  tell, 
From  'Lithgow  to  the  banks  of  Forth: 
Your  history  keep,  though  monarchs  sleep 
And  ivy  round  yon  turrets  creep. 

So  here's  to  old  St.  Michael's  Well, 

As  years  their  golden  links  unwind, 
And  lisping  children  come  to  spell — 
"St.  Michael  is  to  Strangers  kinde." 
Up  all,  and  ride  with  stately  pride — 
That  legend  makes  your  marches  wide. 


PROTEST  OF  THE  IMMORTALS 

Against     the    proposed     railway-tunnel    in    Princes    Street, 
Edinburgh  — Happily    averted. 

A  SINGULAR  meeting  the  other  night! 

Did  you  hear  of  it  up  at  Parliament  Hall? 
Just  twelve  o'clock,  the  moon  shone  bright ; 
A  strange,  weird  brilliancy  flooded  all 

The  rich-stained  windows — the  portraits  there 
The  spectral  radiance  seemed  to  share. 

I  followed  the  crowd,  a  ghostly  throng, 

A  curious  group  of  former  days; 
As  through  the  portal  it  surged  along 
Familiar  faces  met  my  gaze ; 
As  if  the  library  down  below 
Had  yielded  its  worthies  for  public  show: 


92 


In  close  procession,  a  hundred  or  more ; 

But  it  seemed  so  strange,  no  voice  or  word,          l®n£tttS 
No  footfall  on  the  oaken  floor; 
An  old  time  Provost  proffered  a  word, 
A  motion  forsooth,  for  then  and  there 
Sir  Walter  responded  and  took  the  chair. 


He  seemed  full  pale  as  he  rose  to  speak 

And  bowed  his  head  to  the  eager  crowd, 
But  a  flush  forthwith  illumed  his  cheek; 
Erect  his  form,  which  erst  was  bowed ; 
Intent  on  the  Wizard  seemed  to  be 
That  quaint,  peculiar  company. 


I  noted  expressions  of  scorn  and  pride 

Vividly  flashed  from  face  to  face; 
The  Minstrel  dashed  a  tear  aside, 

Appealing,  forsooth,  to  the  Scottish  race; 
Ay,  more,  each  gesture  seemed  to  be 
For  his  darling  city  a  loving  plea. 


93 


*  saw  hmi  point  to  a  legend  there 

Emblazoned  upon  the  windows  high; 
To  the  crown  that  Scotia  used  to  wear 
When  her  heroes  dared  to  do  and  die; 
And  he  seemed  to  say,  "Edina's  crown 
Shall  not  for  gold  be  trampled  down." 


All  hands  went  up  at  the  table  round, 

Where  sat  Kit  North  with  flowing  quill, 
And  the  sentences  seemed  to  leap  and  bound 
Like  living  sparks  from  his  sturdy  will — 
A  protest  deep,  a  trumpet  word 
Straight  from  the  heart,  for  his  soul  was  stirred. 


A  moment's  pause :  they  were  asked  to  sign ; 

But  who  would  lead  that  famous  band? 
Who  on  the  roll  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
Prince  or  peasant,  thus  dared  to  stand? 
With  one  accord  the  gathering  turns, 
And  straightway  summons  Robert  Burns. 


94 


He  came  and  proudly  wrote  his  name, 
The  clear,  bold  hand  beloved  by  all, 
And  there  seemed  to  burst  a  loud  acclaim 
That  shook  the  roof  of  the  stately  hall ; 
His  plain  sign-manual  seemed  to  say 
"We  guard  'Auld  Reekie'  from  wrong  to-day." 


Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  steady  file, 

I  noted  them  all  as  they  passed  along — 
Dugald  Stewart  and  stern  Carlyle, 

Riddell  and  Lockhart  of  Border  Song, 
Professor  Aytoun  and  dear  John  Brown, 
Brougham  and  Erskine  in  wig  and  gown ; 


Hugh  Miller  and  Pollock,  Mackenzie,  Blair, 

Cockburn,  Jeffrey,  and  David  Hume ; 
Hogg  and  Ramsey — a  curious  pair; 
De  Quincey,  "Delta"  in  nom  de  plume; 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  Bos  well,  Home, 
Fergusson,  Alison — still  they  come. 

95 


They  stood  in  groups,  the  roll  was  done; 

^e  chairman  rose,  they  listened  all ; 
St.  Giles  pealed  out  the  hour  of  one, 

They  took  their  way  from  the  silent  hall ; 
Over  the  parchment  alone  I  bent — 
It  seemed  like  the  League  and  Covenant. 


I  read  it  there  in  the  fading  light, 

A  message  strange  from  the  shadowy  past; 
With  storied  names  forever  bright 

While  Scotland's  fame  and  glory  last; 

The  ink  on  that  parchment  shall  never  fade 
Till  Arthur's  Seat  in  the  Forth  is  laid : 


"Stand  by  your  city,  guard  it  well — 

That  street  is  more  than  a  common  wynd 
For  smoking  chimneys  and  sooty  smell ; 
Has  Plutus  made  your  guardians  blind? 
What  god  your  senses  has  so  beguiled 
That  art  and  nature  shall  be  defiled?" 

96 


So  said  Kit  North ;  and  I  read  with  joy —          ^CO ttlSl) 
"Stand  by  your  city,  and  guard  it  well;  119  DC  UTS 

For  a  mess  of  pottage  or  base  alloy 

Who  dares  your  birthright  of  beauty  sell? 
Never!  ah,  never!  Edina  mine, 
Shall  force  or  folly  thy  virtue  tyne. 


"Stand  by  your  city,  and  guard  it  well, 

Burrow  in  rocks  for  your  tunnelled  ways; 
Taint  not  the  soil  with  carbon  fell, 

The  flowers  or  the  sod  where  the  sunlight  plays." 
No  wonder  the  hall  with  wild  applause 
Greeted  the  reading  of  every  clause. 


"Stand  by  your  city,  and  guard  it  well ; 
Greed  is  mighty,  but  truth  prevails ; 
Let  not  your  children's  children  tell 
How  beauty  was  bartered  for  iron  rails." 
Such  was  the  meeting  in  Parliament  Hall. 
"Nemo  impune !"     Guard  us  all. 

97 


Poems 


COLUMBIA'S  SON 

T-JE  stood  beneath  the  crowning  monument 

To  Walter  Scott  in  Edinboro'  town, 
A  lad  of  six,  our  Malcolm,  who  had  spent 

Scarcely  a  week  'mid  Scotland's  heather  brown; 
And,  sighing,  asked  his  mother  every  day — 
"Why  don't  they  paint  these  houses,  old  and 
gray?" 

For  well  he  knew  the  Hudson's  cheery  shore, 
With  golden  sunsets  flooding  all  the  west; 
Could  lisp  a  bit  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  lore, 
And  deemed  his  home  an  island  of  the  blest ; 
So  dear  the  homestead  brook  and  crystal  lake, 
We  thought  at  first  his  litfl*  heart  would  break. 

9? 


And  what  to  him  was  all  the  storied  past, 

The  rich  romance  which  Scotia's  children  share? 
Too  young  to  know  the  love  that  binds  us  fast, 
Which  he  some  day  will  also  proudly  bear; 
He  only  saw  dun  walls  and  grayish  sky 
To  dim  the  blue  of  his  bright  laughing  eye. 


Methought,  therefore,  an  object-lesson  now 

I'll  give  the  boy,  right  here,  upon  the  spot; 
Beneath  the  kindly,  clear,  uncovered  brow 
Of  him  we  love,  our  glorious  Walter  Scott; 
I'll  tell  him  why  this  lofty  pile  commands 
The  reverent  homage  of  far  distant  lands. 


I  bade  him  look  from  base  to  towering  spire, 

From  flying  buttress  to  dissolving  line, 
To  crowded  niches  with  their  minstrel-choir, 

Whose  living  songs  all  hearts  and  lands  entwine ; 
I  thought  to  make  full  clear  ere  I  began 
The  greatness  of  the  poet  and  the  man. 

99 


I  had  my  points  arranged  to  make  them  tell, 
I£)00ttt0          The  Trosachs,  Tweed,  and  Forth  in  order  due; 
Highland  and  Lowland,  crag  and  misty  fell, 
Where  beacons  blazed  and  fiery  crosses  flew; 
I  summoned  all  the  wealth  at  my  command, 
And  held  my  audience  fairly  by  the  hand. 


Enrapt  he  stood;  intently  gazed  on  high — 

He  seemed  so  small  beneath  that  spire  so  great; 
I  thought  to  get  "Don't  know" .as  his  reply, 
And  then  at  large  upon  my  theme  dilate; 
'Twould  take,  forsooth,  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
To  sketch  the  Wizard  and  his  matchless  power. 


"Now,  listen,  Malcolm,"  slowly  I  began — 

I  didn't  want  the  little  fellow  dazed— 
"Just  think  a  moment :  Do  you  know  the  man 
For  whom  this  noble  monument  was  raised?" 
With  answer  worthy  of  Columbia's  son 
He  took  it  in,  and  said :  "George  Washington." 

100 


©COttfef) 

Poems 


JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE 

Commemorating  His  Eightieth  Year 
T^AME  Nature,  communing  with  Coila  one  day, 

Remarked  in  a  social,  neighborly  way, 
That  she  had  been  kept  rather  busy  of  late 
Attending  to  poets  and  matters  of  state; 

That  Robbie  had  closed  up  the  century  well, 
And  Byron  and  Scott  would  hold  out  for  a  spell; 
She  was  therefore  inclined  to  take  a  vacation, 
And,  on  her  return,  to  startle  the  nation; 

Would  visit,  forsooth,  Asia  Minor  and  Greece, 
And  lay  out  a  plan  for  her  great  masterpiece. 
So  she  wandered  unseen  for  a  time  among  men, 
Returning  about  eighteen  hundred  and  ten. 

101 


Then  straightway  to  Coila  her  way  she  betook, 
And  found  her  ensconced  in  a  bright  cosey  nook. 
With  swift-winged  words  her  tale  she  began — 
I've  found  the  essentials  for  making  a  man; 

.    The  proper  proportion  of  genius  and  art, 

Love,  humor,  and  pathos,  mind,  body  and  heart, 
With  habiliments,  too,  that  are  fit  for  a  king, 
Or  better,  for  genuine  princes  that  sing. 

I  met  the  nine  Muses,  who  gave  me  a  piece — 
A  delicate  web  of  the  old  Golden  Fleece — 
Which  they  bade  me  to  take  far  over  the  wave 
To  bright  sunny  lands  where  magnolias  wave ; 

To  a  fountain  of  youth,  Ponce  de  Leon  by  name, 
And  I  wandered  for  months  without  finding  the 

same; 

The  woes  of  Ulysses  were  nothing  to  mine, 
But  I  stayed  by  the  Fleece  as  I  promised  the  Nine; 

Till  there  in  a  wilderness,  silent  and  vast, 
In  a  clear  sparkling  pool  the  token  was  cast ; 
And  lo,  as  I  gazed,  the  Fleece  took  the  form 
Of  a  mantle  well  woven  for  sunshine  or  storm. 

102 


Be  it  Jason  or  Stuart,  "Midlothian"  still 
Is  the  brand  of  this  Greek-Scotch-American  twill; 
And,  Coila,  the  laddie  will  never  grow  old 
Whose  heart  is  enwrapped  in  this  wondrous  fold. 

From  the  east  to  the  west,  from  the  old  to  the  new, 
From  Helicon  dry  to  Columbia's  dew 
I  have  wandered  at  will ;  this  staff  in  my  hand 
Was  found  in  the  groves  of  fair  Florida's  land ; 

Amid  pines  that  embossom  de  Funiak  Spring, 
Where  poplar  and  laurel  the  poets  outsing, 
Where  children  of  Scotia  in  happiness  dwell, 
By  a  fountain  as  sacred  as  St.  Ronan's  well ; 

In  gardens  of  lotus,  with  sunshine  so  clear 
That  the  centuries  glide  without  noting  the  year: 
So,  Coila,  adieu!    I  go  with  the  morn, 
Guard  plaidie  and  staff  for  the  genius  unborn; 

It  may  be  a  month,  or  it  may  be  a  day, 
Look  well  to  the  infant  that's  coming  this  way ; 
And,  also  remember  this  mantle  of  joy 
Will  keep  its  possessor  forever  a  boy. 

103 


TO  JOHN  STRATHESK 

At  Allan  Ramsay's  Birthplace 
JT  did  me  prood  the  "roose"  you  sent 

To  Scottish  friends  in  guid  black  prent; 
The  glowing  lines  wi'  kindness  brent 

Illume  my  desk — 
Love,  wit    and  pathos  truly  blent 

By  "John  Strathesk." 

I  read  the  tribute  o'er  and  o'er, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  to  the  core, 
The  loyal  wishes  that  it  bore 

Across  the  sea; 
The  uttered  word — and  something  more 

That  blurs  the  e'e. 


104 


Ay,  such  the  magic  of  your  pen, 
I  saw  the  winding  Esk  again, 
Sir  Walter's  home  and  quiet  glen 

At  dear  Lasswade, 
The  resting-place  of  Hawthornden, 

Where  last  we  strayed. 


I  stood  among  the  mountain-rills 
Of  Wanlockhead  and  fair  Leadhills— 
Again  your  speech  the  gathering  thrills 

With  worthy  pride 
For  Symington,  whose  genius  fills 

The  Lowthers  wide. 


What  joy  to  breathe  the  caller  air, 
To  stand  with  reverenN.  forehead  bare 
By  Allan  Ramsay's  portal  there, 

Whose  rich  bequest 
Invites  the  world  his  love  to  share 

And  be  his  guest. 


105 


That  ancient  library  had  a  "splore" 
Of  eloquence  ne'er  heard  before, 
Wi'  loving  links  from  shore  to  shore 

And  Scottish  sang; 
The  Hudson  flowed  beside  the  door, 

Or  I  am  wrang. 


Full  many  a  tome  and  antique  book 
Upon  the  scene  in  wonder  look ; 
A  folio,  hid  within  a  nook, 

His  neighbor  nudged, 
And  whispered  till  old  Chaucer  shook, 

And  Johnson  "fudged." 


One  parchment  that  had  been  in  pawn 
For  centuries,  faintly  seemed  to  yawn; 
A  reverend  doctor,  full  of  brawn, 

Turned  on  his  bier; 
He  took  it  for  the  Judgment  dawn, 

And  asked  the  year. 

1 06 


Chatham  and  Fox  awoke  at  last, 

With  trembling  limbs  and  cheeks  aghast; 

They  thought,  forsooth,  their  votes  to  cast 

On  pending  bill; 
The  Speaker  said  a  cyclone  passed 

O'er  Richmond  Hill. 


Ah,  if  those  worthies  only  knew 
That  we  were  also  of  their  crew, 
Our  books,  like  guests  in  honored  pew, 

On  upper  shelf, 
Perhaps  they'd  read  the  preface  through, 

Ye  ken  yourself. 


But  this  I  know:  that  summer  day, 
From  morning  gold  to  evening  gray, 
Within  one  heart  has  come  to  stay 

While  memory  bides ; 
Those  velvet  hills  where  shadows  play — 

That  ride  of  rides. 


107 


A  "four-in-hand"  that  swept  the  road 
From  "water-meetings' "  sweet  abode, 
To  where  the  Nith  in  music  flowed; 

By  many  a  stream 
All  nameless  now,  but  well  bestowed 

In  lingering  dream. 


I  see  the  kirk  with  carving  old, 

With  mouldering  walls  'mid  silent  fold, 

The  crumbling  arch,  the  chancel  cold, 

Of  Durisdeer; 
The  storied  tomb  of  Douglas  bold 

Who  knew  not  fear. 


How  like  a  vision,  yet  how  real 
Those  golden  hours  upon  us  steal, 
With  open  hearts  and  hands  that  seal 

Rich  friendships  fast; 
The  living  shrines  where  memories  kneel 

All  else  outlast. 


108 


No  pencil-ray  of  sunlight  born, 
No  bugle-blast  of  golden  horn, 
No  song  of  poet  can  adorn 

Or  half  portray 
The  glory  of  that  trip  from  morn 

To  close  of  day. 


Then  take,  "Strathesk,"  my  warmest  prayer 
Guard  Scotland's  children  everywhere, 
Her  lads  and  lasses  keep  frae  care 

For  evermore; 
And  favoring  winds  the  message  bear 

To  Scotia's  shore. 


1 09 


fttotttefc 


SKIBO  CASTLE 

TN  a  realm  of  wonder  and  beauty 

Where  the  Dornoch  lovingly  sleeps, 
Amid  moorland,  meadow  and  mountain, 

Whence  the  Oykel  in  melody  sweeps, 
Stands  the  castle  of  Scotland's  Aladdin, 

Whose  "Lamp  of  Genius"  and  might 
Emblazons  o'er  many  a  portal 

The  legend  of  —"Let  there  be  Light"! 


Does  it  seem  like  a  dream  to  the  fairies 
Who  guarded  the  wood-lands  of  old 

To  see  their  loved  Skibo  transfigured 
New  visions  of  beauty  unfold; 


no 


As  they  troop  in  the  mid-summer  moonlight, 
Through  archway  and  oriel  peer, 

And  flitting  away  to  their  sisters 
Rename  it  "The  Castle  of  Cheer"? 


Or  more  like  a  dream  to  the  builder, 

In  the  quiet  and  long  gloaming  hours, 
As  he  thinks  of  a  lad  in  Dunfermline 

Among  Scotland's  imperial  towers; 
Of  the  fortune  that  beckoned  him  westward 

To  sun-set  turrets  of  gold, 
Where  the  fervid  heart  of  the  toiler 

Is  wrought  in  Liberty's  mould. 

Mayhap  he  still  hears  in  his  musings 

A  mother's  message  of  joy, 
As  she  tells  him  of  Scotia's  glory 

Which  kindled  his  heart  as  a  boy ; 
Of  heroes  who  watched  o'er  the  cradle 

That  rocked  Columbia's  birth,— - 
First  born  of  Albion's  children 

Whose  language  engirdles  the  earth: — 


O*  *e  warP  and  woof  of  a  nation 

"Triumphant"  through  sorrow  and  pain; 
"Democracy"  plying  her  shuttle 

In  the  web  of  commerce  and  gain, 
Till  the  song  of  the  poet  and  prophet 

That  wakened  the  banks  of  the  Ayr 
Shall  swell  to  the  world-wide  anthem 

Of  a  "Brotherhood"  free  and  fair. 


112 


TO  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 


I  do  note  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes, 
And  think  that  they  have  long  been  sight- 

less dust; 
When  I  observe  the  warrior's  envied  prize  — 

Helmet  and  corselet  —  thick  with  yellow  rust; 
When  scutcheoned  doors  lie  prone  in  castle  halls, 

And  turrets  totter,  razed  by  ruthless  Time; 
When  panelled  brass  from  stately  column  falls, 

Well-graved  with  praises  writ  in  lofty  rhyme  — 
Then  I  perceive  how  all  things  here  decay; 

That  this  wide  world  is  but  a  shifting  stage, 
Where  faith  and  love,  fierce  pride  and  passion  play, 
And  narrow  lines  divide  the  fool  and  sage; 
Where  fame's  brief  candle  flickers  to  its  death, 
And  beauty's  reign  is  measured  by  a  breath. 


Scottfeft 


TANTALLON  CASTLE 

more  Tantallon  rings  with  battle-cry 
Or  shout  of  triumph  in  the  martial  list; 
No  bugle-call  or  seneschal's  reply 

Pierces  the  darkness  or  the  driving  mist; 
I  sit  alone  and  hear  the  night  winds  sigh, 

Till  now  yon  battlement  by  moonlight  kissed 
Responds  with  echoes  that  will  never  die, 

While  lapsing  wave  and  crag  keep  faithful  tryst: 
Again  proud  Marmion  waits  the  purple  morn 

To  meet  his  fate  on  Flodden's  bitter  field ; 
To  fairer  fortune  brave  De  Wilton  born 

Watches  with  Clare  beside  the  Douglas  shield; 
What  wondrous  power!  Behold  the  Wizard's  art — 

His  soul  the  lens,  his  realm  the  human  heart. 

114 


Poems 


INCH-CAILLIACH,  LOCH  LOMOND 


The    island    lurial-place    of    Clan-Alpine,    resembling,    from 
Rossdhu,  a  reclining  body  with  folded  arms 


more  Clan-Alpine's  pibroch  wakes 
Loch  Lomond's  hills  and  waters  blue; 
"Hail  to  the  Chief"  no  longer  breaks 

The  quiet  sleep  of  Roderick  Dhu: 
Enwrapped  in  peace  the  islands  gleam 

Like  emerald  gems  in  sapphire  set, 
And,  far  away,  as  in  a  dream, 

Float  purple  fields  where  heroes  met. 

Inch-Cailliach—  island  of  the  blest! 

Columba's  daughter,  passing  fair, 
With  folded  arms  upon  her  breast, 

Rests  soft  in  sunset  radiance  there  ; 
A  vision  sweet  of  fond  Elaine, 

And  floating  barge  of  Camelot, 
Upon  her  brow  no  trace  of  pain, 

And  on  her  heart  "Forget  me  not." 


ForSet  thee'  saintly  guardian?    Nay. 

Froni  distant  lands  across  the  sea 
To  this  lone  isle  I  fondly  stray 

With  song  and  garland  fresh  for  thee; 
I  trace  the  old  inscriptions  dear, 

Fast  fading  now  from  mortal  ken, 
And  through  the  silvered  lichens  peer 

To  read  MacAlpine's  name  again. 


My  mother's  name,  a  sacred  link 

That  binds  me  to  the  storied  past; 
A  rainbow  bridge  from  brink  to  brink 

Which  spans  with  light  the  centuries  vast. 
Two  hundred  years!    Clan- Alpine's  pine 

Has  struck  its  roots  in  other  lands; 
My  pulses  thrill  to  trace  the  sign 

And  touch  the  cross  with  reverent  hands. 

i 
All  ruin  here ! — the  shrine  is  dust, 

The  chapel  wall  a  shapeless  mound; 
But  nature  guards  with  loving  trust, 

And  ivy  twines  her  tendrils  round 


116 


The  simple  slab,  sublimer  far 

Than  gilded  dome  for  Scotia's  line ; 

The  open  sky  and  northern  star 
Befit  the  chieftains  of  the  pine. 


Scottfeft 
Poems 


The  light  streams  out  from  fair  Rossdhu 

Across  the  golden-tinted  wave; 
That  crumbling  keep,  that  ancient  yew, 

Still  mark  a  worthy  foeman's  grave'; 
But  warm  the  hearts  that  now  await 

Our  coming  at  the  open  door, 
With  love  and  friendship  at  the  gate, 

And  beacon-lights  along  the  shore. 


Dear  Scotia!  ever  yet  more  dear 

To  loyal  sons  in  every  land; 
Strong  in  a  race  that  knew  not  fear, 

And  for  man's  freedom  dared  to  stand; 
Ay,  dearer  for  thy  songs  that  float 

Like  thistle-down  o'er  land  and  sea, 
And  strike  the  universal  note 

Of  love  and  faith  and  liberty. 


117 


The  love-light  of  that  August  noon 
Still  gilds  the  banks  o'  Bonnie  Doon. 


Frae  O'er  the  Sea 


Poems 


"It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that!" 

— Robert  Burns. 


poems 


THE  CENTURY'S  SONG 

note  from  out  the  centuries  vast, 
Which  he  who  lists  to-day  may  hear; 
One  word  on  Judah's  waters  cast, 
With  widening  circle  year  by  year ; 

One  song  that  thrills  the  patriot  van — 
The  crowning  brotherhood  of  man. 

'Twas  this  the  peasant  poet  sung, 

By  bonnie  Doon  and  winding  Ayr, 
To  that  dear  harp  by  Coila  strung, 

Whose  music  floats  prophetic  prayer — 
A  choral  link  from  shore  to  shore, 
Of  man  to  man  the  world  o'er. 

121 


No  grander  utterance— "Man  to  man!" 

Behold  the  Century's  living  voice! 
These  simple  words  the  ages  span; 
The  nations  listen  and  rejoice ; 

The  Ploughman  bard  of  Scottish  blood 
Proclaims  the  song  of  brotherhood. 


Our  fathers  struggled  to  be  free — 

We  have  the  freedom  that  they  wrought; 
For  lofty  faith  and  liberty 

Brave  martyrs  died  and  heroes  fought — 
"Nemo  Impune"  sternly  sealed 
On  many  a  fierce  and  bloody  field. 


We  know  by  heart  each  hallowed  name, 

Each  rugged  pass  by  valor  trod, 
The  Bannockburns  baptised  to  fame 
By  men  who  spurned  the  tyrant's  rod ; 

Who  scorned  to  wear  a  conqueror's  chain, 
Who  knew  their  rights  and  dared  maintain. 

122 


As  men  who  climb  a  mountain  height 

By  tortuous  path  and  slippery  steep,  J900ttl0 

O'ertaken  by  the  darkling  night 
And  driving  blasts  that  round  them  sweep, 
Behold  with  joy  the  purpling  morn, 
And  wake  the  crags  with  bugle-horn; 


So  up  the  slope  through  rack  and  mist 

Proud  Scotland  holds  her  steadfast  way 
To  granite  peaks  by  sunlight  kissed, 
While  drifting  clouds  below  her  lay ; 
No  pioneer  more  bold  and  true 
Beneath  the  heaven's  arching  blue. 


Till  now  from  heights  securely  reached, 

With  freedom  sown  in  every  soil, 
And  wasteful  war's  red  banner  bleached 
On  sunlit  fields  of  honest  toil, 
Hark  to  the  strain:  "All  war  shall  cease"- 
Saint  Andrew's  song  of  love  and  peace. 

123 


The  charity  that  knows  no  bound 
Is  freedom's  gift  to  every  land; 
The  richest  gold  in  quarry  found 
Or  fairest  pearl  on  ocean  strand 
Is  naught  to  Saxon  freedom  now— 
The  noblest  crown  on  human  brow. 


And  Saxon  brotherhood  to-day 

Means  brotherhood  all  round  the  world; 
No  restless  realm  would  dare  gainsay 
The  edict  of  their  flags  unfurled; 
A  million  soldiers  useless  then 
Amid  the  Parliament  of  men. 


Through  yonder  clouds  behold  the  rift — 

The  hour  is  ripe,  the  morn  is  nigh, 
The  darkness  fades,  the  nations  lift 
Their  foreheads  to  a  fairer  sky; 

Above  the  Twentieth  Century's  door— 
"The  nations  shall  learn  war  no  more." 

124 


O  fairest  Queen!  whose  smiles  entrance — 

Scottish 

Columbia !  born  of  noble  sires, 

Poems 

With  youthful  vigor  in  thy  glance, 
And  hope  that  every  land  inspires; 
Thy  mountain  chains  and  rivers  free 
Proclaim  thy  power  from  sea  to  sea! 


Thine  be  that  power  to  guard  and  bless 

The  millions  vast  who  toil  and  wait, 
Till  man  no  longer  shall  oppress, 
But  Justice  rule  at  every  gate; 

One  law,  one  love,  one  crowning  good — 
The  Century's  song  of  brotherhood! 


125 


Poems 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  AT  BANNOCKBURN 

AY,    everywhere  all  round  the  world 
May  God  defend,  as  on  this  field, 
The  flag  of  liberty  unfurled, 

The  truth  by  blood  of  martyrs  sealed; 
Burns'  prayer  is  ours:  God  bless  the  cause 
When  freemen  stand  for  freedom's  laws. 

God  bless  the  cause  as  on  that  day ! 

Swell  wide  the  song,  each  note  is  dear; 
Five  centuries  have  passed  away, 
The  dawning  of  the  sixth  is  near; 
From  every  land  your  sons  return 
To  press  the  field  of  Bannockburn. 

126 


To  greet  the  storied  standard  here 
In  sacred  light  of  early  morn — 
God  bless  the  land;  each  rood  is  dear 
Where  Scottish  liberty  was  born — 
A  battle  for  the  world  beside, 
A  victory  for  the  nations  wide. 


A  link  to  bind  the  old  and  new, 

To  make  more  close  the  kindred  tie, 
To  span  with  light  the  ocean  blue, 
To  float  in  song  'neath  sunnier  sky — 

The  note  that  swells  in  "Scots  wha  hae' 
All  round  the  world  has  come  to  stay. 


At  Marathon  and  Runnymede, 

By  Stirling  Bridge,  at  Naseby  Field, 
Fair  freedom  conned  a  lofty  creed 
And  wrote  Impune  on  her  shield; 

Then  westward  brushed  the  morning  dew 
And  set  the  stars  within  the  blue. 


127 


No  dwellers  in  Utopia  they — 

Brave  Pilgrims  housed  in  narrow  hold: 

Poems 

Fate  took  the  helm,  a  wintry  bay 
Stern  welcome  gave  that  starving  fold; 
What  seeds  of  time  the  Mayflower  bore 
From  Albion  to  Columbia's  shore! 


To  gentler  vales,  to  brighter  streams, 

To  praries  carpeted  with  flowers; 
To  mountains  ribbed  with  golden  seams, 
To  quiet  haunts   and  woodland  bowers — 
The  poet's  "Islands  of  the  Blest," 
The  fair  Republic  of  the  West. 


So  here  beside  the  flowing  rill 

We  come  with  joy  to  trace  the  source, 
To  note  the  fount,  to  feel  the  thrill 
Of  manhood  in  its  widening  course, 

And,  standing  round  the  old  Borestone, 
Pledge  Wallace,  Bruce,  and  Washington. 

128 


Dear  Scotia!    Homestead  of  the  past, 

Enshrined  through  all  the  fleeting  years; 
Your  ivy  tendrils  bind  us  fast, 
A  common  heritage  endears; 

May  God  defend!     Burns'  prayer  is  ours, 
Engird  the  world  with  Freedom's  flowers! 


129 


Poems 


SAINT  ANDREW'S  SONS 

Centennial  of  Saint  Andrew's  Society,  Albany 

A    HUNDRED  years!     Hark  to  the  chime 

That  peals  from  yonder  tower! 
We  come  to-night  to  mark  the  time, 

To  trace  the  dial's  hour, 
When  Scotland's  sons  from  o'er  the  sea 

Unfurled  her  banner  bright, 
Proud  emblem  of  the  bold  and  free, 
A  standard  blue  and  white, 

Above  the  hill-crowned  city  here 
Of  titled  name  to  Scotia  dear. 

A  cycle  grand,  a  bonnie  blink 

Of  morning's  golden  beam, 
Before  whose  blaze  the  ages  shrink 

And  time  becomes  a  dream, 
A  century  vast  of  Hudson  fame, 

Which  Irving's  fancy  seals, 

130 


Whose  ripples  murmur  Morse's  name 
And  flash  to  Fulton's  wheels,  100£ttt$ 

Yon  sacred  cross  has  journeyed  wide 
But  knows  no  fairer  realm  or  tide. 

A  moment  pause !    With  reverence  trace 

The  lesson  written  there, 
No  monarch's  crown  or  gilded  mace 

His  reign  of  love  can  share. 
Behold  his  course  through  many  a  land, 

From  sun  to  northern  snows, 
From  Bosphorus  bright  and  Thracian  strand 

To  where  the  Danube  flows — 
A  miracle  of  truth  divine, 
A  martyr's  cross,  a  hallowed  shrine. 

Re-read  the  legend  of  the  past! — 

There  came  to  Scotland's  door 
A  shipwrecked  missionary  cast 

Upon  a  storm-swept  shore, 
And  there  St.  Andrew's  towers  arose, 

From  moat  to  stately  shrine, 
To  guard  his  relics  from  her  foes 

And  sweep  the  English  line — 


The  martyr's  lips,  at  Patras  stilled, 

^e  Scottish  heart  with  triumph  thrilled. 

The  centuries  pass,  a  leader  bold 

For  Scotland  prayed  at  night, 
Alone  upon  the  dreary  wold, 

To  win  the  morrow's  fight, 
When  lo!  a  cross  illumes  the  coast 

Of  white  against  the  blue, 
Straightway  awoke  the  sleeping  host, 

Saint  Andrew's  cross  was  true; 

Since  then  the  Scottish  flag  has  worn 
Yon  sacred  cross  to  victory  borne. 

The  secret  here  of  Scotland's  power, 

The  strength  that  will  not  yield, 
Yon  cross  Old  Scotia's  richest  dower, 

With  faith  wrought  in  her  shield — 
And  so  the  flag  our  fathers  knew 

Remains  the  same  to-day — 
Her  stainless  standard  white  and  blue 

Shall  never  pass  away: 

Up  all  in  fond  remembrance  met: 
"Saint  Andrew's  Sons  and  Scotland  yet.' 

132 


ALPINE  SPRING 

To  My  Mother,  Mary  Ann  MacAlpine  Bruce,  DeFuniak 
Springs,  Florida 

T  KNOW  the  mountain  brooklets  in  the  pass  of 

wild  Glencoe, 
Where  waved  the  MacAlpine  standard  a  thousand 

years  ago. 
I  have  heard  the  pibroch  sounding  by  stream  and 

wooded  fell, 
And  lingered  in  the  gloaming  beside  St.  Ronan's 

Well. 

I  know  the  homestead  fountain,  where  the  waters 

bubble  bright, 
Beneath   the  oak  and  maple   aglow   with   golden 

light; 


I  listen  to  the  music  of  the  gurgling  sylvan  rill. 
And  the  gentle,  mellow  cadence  of  the  wondering 
whippoorwill. 


I  wander  down  the  footpath,  in  memory  here  to-day, 
With  my  mother  to  that  springside  in  the  hills  so 

far  away ; 
I  hear  the  old-time  stories,  kneel  again  beside  her 

knee, 
And  the  woodland's  murmuring  music  through  the 

twilight  speaks  to  me; 


With  a  love  that  knows  no  distance,  though  deep 

shadows  intervene, 
Leading   back   the   weary    wanderer   through   the 

meadows  fair  and  green, 
With  a  love  that  lifts  her  rainbow,  though  the  skies 

be  dark  above — 
Sunshine  from  a  sphere  immortal,  born  of  heaven — 

a  mother's  love. 


134 


In  the  glory  of  this  sunshine  we  have  come  in  glad- 

ness  now,  J9  001110 

In  the  light  that  veils  her  presence,  reverent  with 

uncovered  brow; 
Here  beside  the  gentle  music  of  fair  waters  flowing 

free- 
Alpine  Spring,  my  sainted  mother,  consecrates  its 

heart  to  thee. 


Come,  then,  children,  free  and  happy,  for  her  laugh 

was  light  as  yours ; 
Come,  fair  youth,  with  golden  promise  that  abideth 

and  endures; 
Come,  fond  age,  that  now  is  waiting  for  the  bliss 

that  she  hath  won; 
Welcome  to  the  Alpine  fountain  while  its  waters 

greet  the  sun. 


135 


Poems 


THE  PIONEERS 

p  ROM  lands  of  sunrise  far  away, 

From  Jural  cliffs,  from  Caspian  shore, 
From  Scythian  deserts  waste  and  gray, 
From  rose-decked  Persia's  floral  floor, 
One  race  has  kept  the  western  trail — 
The  bonnie,  braw,  warm-hearted  Gael; 
The  sturdy  Gael  who  came  from  far, 
Led  onward  by  the  morning-star. 

By  many  a  stream  their  footsteps  strayed, 
Frae  Indus  to  the  Elbe  and  Rhine, 

Before  their  ruddy  children  played 
By  Bonnie  Doon  or  crystal  Tyne. 


136 


The  music  of  Arabian  rills 
Finds  echo  in  old  Scotia's  hills; 
The  Oriental  thread  remains 
In  warp  and  woof  of  Gaelic  strains. 

Onward  and  onward  year  by  year, 

By  Thracian  fields,  by  Bosphorus  straits, 

Through  stormy  seas  their  barks  they  steer 
Beyond  Gibralter's  frowning  gates: 

Impelled  to  seek  the  farthest  shore 

Before  their  wanderings  are  o'er, 

Still  onward,  till  before  them  lie 

The  Orkneys  and  the  Isle  of  Skye. 

They  came — the  pioneers  of  truth — 

To  bleak  lona's  pebbled  strand, 
Bright  guardians  of  fair  Albion's  youth, 

The  founders  of  a  noble  band; 
From  out  whose  loins  sprang  martyrs  brave, 
Who  gave  their  all  their  faith  to  save — 
The  men  who  faced  a  living  lie, 
And  for  God's  glory  dared  to  die. 

137 


They  came — the  pioneers  of  song, 

Of  courtly  grace  and  minstrel  art, 
With  lyric  fire  that  slumbers  long, 

Then  bursts  like  Aetna's  liquid  heart, 
And  overflows  the  human  bounds 
Of  thought  with  sweet  seraphic  sounds : 
Like  notes  that  stray  from  realms  above — 
Electric  sparks  of  Heavenly  love. 

They  came — fair  freedom's  pioneers, 

Nor  cared  for  king  nor  tyrant's  frown; 
No  nobler  record  through  the  years 

Since  Gideon's  sword  was  handed  down. 
They  saw  the  individual  man 
In  Celtic  sept,  in  Highland  clan, 
And  from  their  hill-tops  floated  free 
The  thistle-down  of  liberty. 


The  "bairn,"  beside  whom  Hagar  wept, 
Ordained  a  hardy  race  to  rear, 

Uncradled,  but  by  angels  kept — 
A  motherhood  forever  near; 


138 


The  archer  lad  of  deserts  wild 
Anticipates  the  Gaelic  child, 
And  leads  our  souls  on  fancy's  wing 
From  Paran's  fount  to  Fillan's  spring. 

O  Gaelic  fathers,  yours  and  mine, 

Who  come  from  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
Rejoicing  still  in  Auld  Lang  Syne, 

We  bow  to  thee  with  reverend  knee ! 
Proud  of  thy  faith  and  lofty  fame, 
Proud  of  each  bright  and  honored  name, 
Our  hearts  respond  with  rapturous  thrill — 
"Hail  to  the  chief!"  Clan  Alpine  still! 

And  here's  to  bright  De  Funiak  Springs, 

To  Macs  and  Campbells  all  in  line, 
And  all  that  Gaelic  fervor  brings 

Unto  this  bright  and  crystal  shrine! 
While  Katrine's  lapsing  waters  smile, 
And  kiss  the  sands  of  Ellen's  Isle, 
So  long  will  loyal  hearts  beat  true 
Beside  De  Funiak's  waters  blue. 

139 


A  RALLY 

Caledonia  County,   Vermont 

ighlanders  come  in  their  gay  plaided  tartan, 
The  music  of  Scotia  floats  free  on  the  air ; 
Come  over,  brave  lads,  from  Barnet  and  Barton, 
From  Mclndoe's  Falls  and  St.  Johnsbury  fair. 
Come  over  and  witness  the  games  of  a  nation 
Whose  prowess  is  noted  in  story  and  song; 
We'll  furnish  you  all  a  fine  "muscle"  collation — 
Come  over,  and  bring  your  fair  cousins  along. 

Our  fathers  who  came  here  were  fresh  from  the 
heather, 

Our  county  still  bears  the  old  name  of  the  Gael ; 
So  up  wi'  the  bonnet  and  bonnie  blue  feather, 

Sit  down  by  our  table  and  eat  of  our  kail. 

140 


Welcome,  ay  welcome,  dear  clansmen  and  brithers! 

Hark  to  the  bagpipe,  and  answer  the  ca' ;  ]@0£ttl0 

Come  wi'  your  wives,  your  sisters,  and  mithers, 

We'll  meet  you  and  greet  you,  and  welcome  you  a* ! 

Come  from  the  valleys,  the  hills,  and  the  mountains; 

Gather  as  gathered  your  fathers  of  old — 
From  clear  northern  lakes  and  bright  crystal  foun- 
tains, 

The  half  of  whose  beauty  has  never  been  told. 
Rally,  like  true,  loyal  Scottish  descendants, 

Over  the  Border,  and  answer  the  ca'! 
And  twine  round  this  day  of  Supreme  Independence 

The  bluebell,  the  heather,  the  thistle  and  a* ! 


141 


Poem* 


A  SONG  TO  YE  BAITH 

A  SONG  frae  the  heart  to  the  chiels  o'  the  clan 
MacDonald    of    Brooklyn — the    chief    of    the 

van. 

Whose  bonnet  and  tartan  shall  e'er  bear  the  gree 
While  bluebells  and  heather  deck  highland  and  lea. 

MacDonald!     MacDonald!  what   memories  rise 
Of  bonnie  Loch  Leven,  the  child  of  the  skies ; 
Glencoe,  wi*  sad  story,  and  streamlet  of  pain — 
Prince  Charlie,  immortal  in  Flora's  refrain. 

Nae  clanship  but  thine  has  a  sponser  sae  braw 
As  Flora  MacDonald,  the  Queen  o'  them  a*. 
A  song  to  the  laddies?    Nay  that  winna  do, 
Up  all  for  the  lassies — the  Floras  we  woo. 

142 


Auld  Scotland  is  far,  but  her  children  are  true, 
The  gowan  blooms  fairer  wi'  memory's  dew, 
The  ivy  is  greener — the  older  the  wa'. 
And  the  note  o'  the  linnet  is  sweetest  of  a'. 

For  youth  is  immortal,  and  love  never  dies, 
Wherever  we  wander,  'neath  whatever  skies. 
So  here,  at  the  altar  and  shrine  of  our  faith, 
MacDonalds  and  Floras — a  song  to  ye  baith. 


poem* 

TO  THE  SHAKESPEARE  SOCIETY 

Edinburgh 

A  ND  now  to  you,  dear  Shakespeare  friends,  to- 
night 

Two  argosies  are  here  and  both  secure; 
One  rich  with  love  and  one  with  memory  bright — 

Life's  only  wealth,  a  cargo  safe  and  sure. 
With  lifted  sail  fond  memory  floats  away, 
But  love  remains,  the  argosy  I  brought; 
A  welcome  waits  in  yonder  sunlit  bay 
These  freighted  dreams  with  kindness  all 

inwrought. 
One  invoice  here,  and  one  beyond  the  sea 

That  needs  no  notary's  scrawl  or  consul's  seal; 
In  every  land  one  word  is  "sesame" — 

A  Shakespeare  passport  signed  by  Samuel 

Neil. 
"Bon  Voyage"  give,  and  grant  your  leader's 

name, 
No  Saxon  port  too  distant  for  his  fame. 

144 


TO  AN  EDINBURGH  FRIEND 

With  a  bit  of  wood  from  Victor  Hugo's  Library 

A  CCEPT  with  this  a  strip  of  hallowed  wood, 

A  moulding  bright  from  Victor  Hugo's  hall; 
A  gilded  bit  where  lingering  fancies  brood 

And  burning  words,  which  every  heart  enthrall. 
You  gave  to  me,  inset  with  faithful  care, 

A  t  tender  keep-sake  from  yon  humble  room 
Of   that    sad    bed   which   heard    Burns'    yearning 

prayer 
And  crowning  verse  that  pierced  the  gathering 

gloom : 
No  other  song  to  all  the  world  so  dear; 

Hush!  round  his  couch  the  sorrowing  muses 

kneel : 

"O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast"  lingers  here — 
Those  sheltering  lines  an  amulet  and  seal: 
Ah!  emblems  utter  what  we  cannot  speak, 
And  voice  our  hearts  when  words  are  all  too 
weak. 

145 


COLUMBIA'S  GARLAND 

Unveiling     of     Lincoln     Monument,     Edinburgh,     Scotland, 
in  memory  of  Scottish-American  Soldiers 

A  NOTHER  clasp  of  loving  hands, 

Another  link  across  the  sea, 
A  living  word  from  distant  lands 
To  grace  the  soldiers  of  the  free; 
Columbia  at  her  Mother's  knee. 
Unfolds  the  scroll  of  Liberty. 

A  parchment  born  of  bitter  years, 

Red-lined  with  blood  of  martyrs  leal, 
Dark  stained  and  blurred  by  captives'  tears, 
By  dungeon-mould  and  rusted  steel — 
A  charter  sealed  beneath  the  star 
That  led  the  nations  from  afar; 

146 


To  find  a  green-girt  island  home, 

With  moat  outlasting  gates  of  steel, 
Whose  bulwark  was  the  ocean  foam, 

Whose  drawbridge  was  the  floating  keel, 
Whereon  to  bear  all  round  the  world 
The  flag  of  Destiny  unfurled. 


Your  Magna  Charta  rode  secure 

Within  the  Mayflower's  narrow  hold, 
That  invoice  made  the  shipment  sure — 
A  Britain  poured  in  larger  mould; 
Your  Gaelic-Saxon-Norman  blood — 
The  yeast  of  Time's  great  brotherhood. 


What  complex  forces  strangely  wrought, 

What  lasting  victories  nobly  won, 
Since  Sidney  died  and  Hampden  fought, 
Or  Milton  dreamed  of  Washington! 
Virginia  voiced  your  stately  creed — 
A  scion  true  of  Runnimede. 


@>COttl$j)  With  tendrils  reaching  west  to  rear 

The  highest  type  of  manhood's  power, 
Born  of  the  soil,  without  a  peer, 

Our  Lincoln  stands  the  noblest  flower 
Of  freedom  in  its  widening  course 
From  Chatham,  Fox   and  Wilberforce: 


To  whom  an  anxious  nation  turned 

•When  gathering  clouds  the  sky  o'ercast, 
A  pilot  brave  with  soul  that  yearned 
To  guide  the  ship  before  the  blast ; 
To  hold  the  faith  our  fathers  knew, 
To  keep  the  stars  within  the  blue. 


A  genius  stamped  with  sterling  worth, 

Despising  juggling  and  pretence, 
His  story  halos  humble  birth, 
A  parable  of  modest  sense; 

Endowed  to  see  and  do  the  right — 
The  majesty  of  moral  might. 


148 


Inspired  to  set  in  simple  speech 

The  words  that  sway  a  people's  heart,  ]£>0£ttl0 

Prophetic  sentences  that  reach 

Beyond  the  realm  and  scope  of  art; 
The  humor  of  a  nation's  youth. 
The  wit  of  plain  and  homely  truth. 


'Twas  this  upheld  the  faltering  arm, 

When  hearts  were  faint  and  bowed  in  prayer; 
His  honest  face  had  power  to  charm 
And  ease  the  burden  of  our  care; 
With  will  serene  that  masters  fate 
He  taught  the  land  to  trust  and  wait. 


With  bended  knee  and  listening  ear 

He  watched  the  hour  to  speak  and  save ; 
Hark!    Bells  peal  out  an  anthem  clear — 
He  strikes  the  shackle  from  the  slave: 
That  deed  completes  the  work  begun 
By  Jefferson  and  Hamilton. 


149 


Embodied  here  to  stand  for  aye 
In  memory  of  soldiers  brave, 
Who  stood  in  many  a  bloody  fray 
In  serried  ranks  our  land  to  save ; 
To  Scotia's  sons  we  proudly  turn — 
Descendants  true  of  Bannockburn. 


"We  cannot  consecrate  this  ground," 
No  deed  of  ours  the  debt  can  pay ; 
The  ray  across  each  martyr's  mound 
Gets  stronger  purchase  day  by  day — 
Each  soldier's  grave  a  fulcrum  sod — 
The  lever  in  the  hand  of  God ; 


To  lift  the  world  to  larger  life, 

To  loftier  dreams  and  nobler  deeds, 
To  broaden  faith  and  narrow  strife, 

To  plant  the  rose  and  crush  the  weeds, 
Till  jealousies  forget  their  date — 
The  cerements  of  a  worn-out  hate. 


150 


Through  prismed  tears  let  sunlight  play, 

Secure  in  joy,  redeemed  in  grief;  Jj90£tTl$ 

One  song  unites  the  Blue  and  Gray, 
One  glory  binds  the  garnered  sheaf — 
War's  cruel  reaping  kindly  sealed 
By  brothers  of  the  martyred  field. 


And  so  Columbia  comes  with  cheer, 

With  outstretched  hand  from  o'er  the  sea, 
To  place  a  garland  on  the  bier 

Of  those  who  died  to  keep  us  free; 
And  here,  beside  her  Mother's  knee, 
Unfolds  the  scroll  of  Liberty. 


LINCOLN  TO  BURNS 

Bront  Lincoln's  Statue ',  Edinburgh,  to  Burns'  Statue,  Chicago 

/\  A    WELL-KNOWN  voice  rings  far  and  free 

(      "r^ 

From  Calton  Hill  ayont  the  sea; 

A  listening  people  fondly  turns 
As  Lincoln  speaks  to  Robert  Burns. 

"Auld  Reekie"  asks  me  to  convey 
Her  love  with  mine  across  the  way, 
And  decks  me  weel  wi'  mony  a  flower, 
For  "now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour" 

When  you  shall  stand  uncovered  there, 
With  manly  heart  and  forehead  bare, 
Beside  the  breezy  northern  lakes 
And  feel  the  pulse  the  century  wakes. 

152 


It  minds  me  of  that  glorious  day 
When  I  to  Scotland  found  my  way, 
One  August  morn  in  Ninety-three, 
To  speak  the  message  of  the  free ; 

And  learn  what  narrow  waters  part 
Columbia's  sons  from  Scotia's  heart; 
Ay,  Robbie,  I  remember  still 
My  greeting  on  old  Calton  Hill. 

So  take  to-day  with  worthy  pride 
Your  welcome  as  yon  prairies  wide; 
The  fertile  valleys  of  the  west 
Bloom  fairer  for  their  Scottish  guest. 

Slow  to  accept  the  draft  you  drew, — 
A  world-wide  claim,  long  over  due, — 
Now  every  heart  its  offering  brings, 
And  every  land  your  glory  sings. 

O,  Robbie,  you  can  never  know 
How  great  the  debt  to  you  I  owe ; 
In  many  a  darksome  hour  of  care 
Your  tender  words  I  used  to  share. 


153 


When  calumny  came  thick  and  fast, 
By  malice  hurled  or  folly  cast, 
Your  songs  were  all  in  all  to  me, 
I  turned  aside — my  soul  was  free. 

You  saw  the  cotter's  humble  home 
Grow  wide  beneath  fair  freedom's  dome; 
And  every  hope  to  manhood  dear 
Transfigured  in  your  dreams  appear. 

You  knew  God  loved  the  common  soil, 
And  hands  made  brown  by  honest  toil: 
"He  must  have  liked  plain  people  well, 
He  made  so  many  like  ourseP  ." 

Yestreen  I  heard  a  braw  Scot  say : — 
"There's  Burns  and  Lincoln  by  the  way,— 
A  cabin  boy  and  cotter  lad — 
Dressed  up  in  bronze  is  nae  sae  bad !" 

I  thanked  him  Robbie  for  that  word, 
The  sweetest  that  I  ever  heard, 
And  told  him  how  I  lived  with  thee, 
And  why  you  were  so  dear  to  me : — 


154 


Born  in  the  glorious  dawn  of  time 
You  caught  the  far  oft7  golden  chime —  Jg)OCttl$ 

"To  every  land,  to  every  sea, 
Proclaim  the  voice  of  Liberty." 

You  heard  a  People's  protest  rise 
From  gilded  throne  to  listening  skies; 
The  ringing  words  subscribed  that  day 
In  "man  to  man"  survive  for  aye. 

The  age  your  ardent  boyhood  knew 
The  first  full  breath  of  freedom  drew, 
And  "Scots  Wha  Hae"  is  dearer  still 
For  Concord  Bridge  and  Bunker  Hill. 

You  saw  with  joy  the  starlit  birth 
Of  yonder  flag  o'er  all  the  earth; 
And  deified  to  keep  us  free 
"The  sacred  posy— 'LibertieV 

You  hailed  with  pride  what  patriots  won 
And  wreathed  the  brow  of  Washington: — 
That  "Ode"  repeals  a  tyrant's  ban 
And  crowns  the  sovereignty  of  man. 


155 


Ay  more,  to  your  brief  life  was  given 
The  noblest  work  vouchsafed  by  Heaven — 
To  bind  through  all  the  coming  years 
In  lasting  love  two  hemispheres. 

So,  as  the  centuries  glide  away, 
And  bring  you  many  a  festal  day, 
You'll  think  betimes,  as  memory  turns, 
"Here  Lincoln  spoke  to  Robbie  Burns." 


156 


Poem* 


AULD  SCOTIA'S  SONGS 

HEN  spring-tide  comes  wi'  sunny  smile, 

And  streamlets  wake  in  every  glen; 
When  lovers  linger  at  the  stile, 

And  a'  the  warld  is  young  again; 
I  think  of  meadows  far  away, 

Where  gowans  bloom  and  memories  throng, 
Of  nooks  where  light  and  shadow  play — 
The  spring-tide  glints  in  Scottish  song. 

When  summer  spreads  the  vale  wi'  flowers, 
And  westlin'  winds  blow  saft  and  sweet; 

When  linnets  sing  in  hawthorn  bowers, 
And  golden  hours  are  a*  too  fleet; 

157 


I  hear  each  leaf  and  rustling  blade 
Respond  to  raptures  deep  and  strong : 

The  "barley  rigs"  shall  never  fade— 
The  summer  blooms  in  Scottish  song. 

When  autumn  paints  the  purple  hills, 

And  skylark  notes  salute  the  morn; 
When  every  slope  wi'  glory  thrills 

To  heather  bells  of  freedom  born; 
I  walk  the  fields  where  patriots  died 

To  sweep  away  a  tyrant's  wrong: 
Yon  thistle-down  floats  far  and  wide — 

The  autumn  glows  in  Scottish  song. 

When  winter  chides  the  bickerin'  burn, 

And  branches  bend  wi'  icy  sleet; 
When  cotters  frae  their  toil  return, 

An'  roun'  the  ingle  neebors  meet, 
I  see  the  social  spirit  free, 

Let  Scotland's  sons  preserve  it  long! 
A  brither's  prayer  frae  o'er  the  sea — 

The  winter  lives  in  Scottish  song. 


158 


Poems 


an  acrostic 

WALLACE  came  when  Scotland  rose 
And  strove  with  might  against  her  foes: 
Long  the  struggle  brave  and  grand. 
Lost!  alas,  by  treacherous  hand! 
All  the  power  of  England's  host 
Came  with  proud  and  martial  boastf 
Edward  leading — soon  to  leam 
BRUCE  was  fang   at  Bannockbum. 
Rally  clansmen  bold  and  free 
Up  for  Scotland's  liberty! 
Chant  the  names  to  Freedom's  use 
Ever  blended — Wallace  Bruce. 


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